I sample through a spread of jam jars on your table, because—it seems—I can’t sit so,
not even in the full cushioned surroundings of where you normally dwell,
not while you aren’t there,
not while it’s empty.
I’m at the brink of a leave and that’s why—perhaps—I’m allowing myself
the full relish of domestic sweetness, without reservation,
to carry over its peculiar comforts when I’m aloft,
in celestial sway.
Your voice remains constant through time: I hear it more distinctly in your letters now.
My voice: points of brilliance, points of intricacy, fallen into slackness and strain.
Couched in a drawer are more envelopes than I remember receiving,
but less revealed therein than you remember revealing.