I can't touch you. The ribs of winter Come into focus at The striated window,

Against which I lean My forehead to be able To scribble your vanishing Name over and over.

Yes, it is over, and has Been over for years. Your white belly a ghost, Your red hair the fire

In the grate, and ice Hanging from the eaves Syllables that never became A sentence of persuasion.

So now I touch the scars, just under my eyes, in this city full of dead memorials, Where I can't touch you.

December 2009, Washington DC