We Are Still Here

After two years apart,
I saw you last Thursday
exiting that bookstore alone
hoarding as you do a large

bag of words, prosody I miss.
I like to think it is loneliness,
or loss of women that insists
you own all the words.

So I listen for the fourth
time tonight to my answering
machine making love, telling
me in some new poet’s words

that “we are still here, tomorrow
is still here,” when I know –
dialing the number you’ve left –
even the afterglow is still here.

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