Adam

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Let’s see. This morning—since you’ve been gone—
I’ve taken a walk on the beach, naming 
And naming and naming, until I can name no more. 
Comber, anemone, crab. Will these do? 

I talk to myself now—so I’ve found—
As never before, when he’d leave me, often 
Now, and now you. I guess I’ll get used 
To the feeling. But it’s funny—the way I get thinking 

I mean—like imagining things as more 
Or less than they are, because when he’s here I 
Know him; but gone, he almost vanishes twice 
Into all, or nothing—I have to urge 

Myself back to that presence, that voice, or hassle 
With a vacancy when I fail. And so with you. 
Like today—I’m imagining you by turns as either a goddess
Or my servant, or as just another creature 

To name, and everything in between, except
What I feel you really must be when you’re here,
And I’m worn out, before noon, when I used to be able
To name—name all day—with scarcely a pause. 

But what shall I call it—both of you gone?
To name what I can’t see is going to be harder.
When you’re back I’ll try to explain what I mean;
But with you here, in a way, it might be hard. 

But at least you can come and sit beside me on the sand,
And listen to the waves—right now 
They’re small, making little exhausted crashes;
The animals romping or lolling, and the sky 

Is a light—a difficult—blue, and no clouds.
I’m just trying to see things as they are, if I can.
My unicorn poking that surf, for example; 
And with nothing at all to do with my hands 

I’ve drawn you these words—on a slope of sand,
In those parallel lines you love so much 
(I can hardly make them, God knows, when you’re here)—
But I forgot (it looks like) to account for the tide. 

If you’re back in time, I’ll teach you to read this.