Sweet Machine1999You weren't well or really ill yet either;
just a little tired, your handsomeness
tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought
to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace.I didn't for a moment doubt you were dead.
I knew that to be true still, even in the dream.
You'd been out-at work maybe?-
having a good day, almost energetic.We seemed to be moving from some old house
where we'd lived, boxes everywhere, things
in disarray: that was the story of my dream,
but even asleep I was shocked out of narrativeby your face, the physical fact of your face:
inches from mine, smooth-shaven, loving, alert.
Why so difficult, remembering the actual look
of you? Without a photograph, without strain?So when I saw your unguarded, reliable face,
your unmistakable gaze opening all the warmth
and clarity of you-warm brown tea-we held
each other for the time the dream allowed.Bless you. You came back so I could see you
once more, plainly, so I could rest against you
without thinking this happiness lessened anything,
without thinking you were alive again.
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