Four in the morning. Stumbling back
to bed, the softness
of my pillow in the spread
of my fingers assumes
again, after so long, the still longed for
round of your head.

How does it feel,
out there in that undiscovered
country from whose bourne et cetera,
to be recalled, drawn back
to your name on my lips again,
the warmth of the flesh?

I recall the promise
we made and broke. Now,
on a grace note
of unbodied restoration in the dream-space
timelessness of sleep,
I keep it. A late gift.