You walked with me

that day, or night, I wasn’t walking
perhaps, maybe I wasn’t me

but it was you
your soft orange hair
spectral and true. You know, others
had of course left
me, perhaps they’d never arrived

for me. And there wasn’t
a me, for sure, a basic corporeality

of senses and heartbeat
but it was you, in your pointy

black shoes, purely imaginary
and more real, more explicable
than footpath and rain, cars and leaves.