Rising over

She left at sun rise
and I slept till maybe half past ten.
The likes of sin still fresh on fingers.
Later that day I went to work
and long before I thought of coming home
I crossed into the day-after thinking
how this all looked so vague
and compromising. The birds
still nested on the window’s ledge.
They sang their song-
The one thing likely to remain.
Others are gone and passed like cold
and mornings without coffee.
The sweet nectar of life inviting.
Henry stares at me. He always has.
That old statue you gave me that night
will always be I suppose. Have you listened
lately? To the songs? I’ve missed you
since that day you were gone and
looking otherwise. I always looked for you-
Drifting as those little floaters
in the thralls of seaweed obscured
and respondent. Alone and compressed
like a child, vagrancy feeds me everything
I have sometimes needed. But never enough.
Never enough.