This is what he remembers Of her who left him behind in Another summer much like this:

Those rooms that are fading into A summer darkness, sometime After nine or ten, traffic steady On the road beyond those high Windows, a breeze ruffling pages Of books on pillows, some of which He gave as presents, as flowers to make Up for the stone that clasped the rasp Of his unspeaking throat - and that Calm town in which nothing really Happened, and hence was the cause of slow Despair - without some diversion or Amusement, love divorces itself From romance, becomes too domestic, And too common and comforting.

Now it is only these commonplace Details that remain to form a membrane Over the remains of those days - how Her mouth moved in laughter between Morsels of food, her hair spread across His arm under a willow, a shadowed forest, And how sometimes was domesticated and tied High over her delicate nape in intricate braids. Also humming as hands moved over a stove - an flammable piano - made breakfast, poured Juice, sliced cheese, touched his face sometimes To remind him that he is not stone...

Sometimes when the heart remembers All this, it feels like a book snatched From her hands by vandals to be used As kindling in their forges of bone.