Night after night through cities and villages
she says his name:
Amsterdam, Namur, in Paris,
Sagres, Ronda, San Sebastien and Anglet
Hallo, ist — zu Hause?
Berlin, near the defenseless wall
he stops coming to the line altogether.
Poppy seeds fallen from a cake of rye.
Auf wiedersehen, toward the plains.
A light like kasha, cracked and reddish.
There is no film but her memory, electric sigh
of a train on its groove:
Her naked feet find his in an apartment kitchen —
Canada, the island in summer
kettle’s hallelujah
faucet composing eighth-notes
bee’s fat drift to patio screen.
How it looks back,
the wind, folded through a tunnel.
The stone of his absence and how long she has held it.
She will not find him in this country.
Onion-flower globes, mauve in the fields.
Not this.
