Her absence is a stagnant landing, a stairway
going nowhere, without her strained effort
to take just one more step against that eternity
of stone cut wind carving her into heavy folds.

Struck cold, stuck in this startling void, I panic.
You can’t stand with me against the current
as the crowd rises and breaks around the thrust
of her thigh, parting—

Without her, how can I explain how I understand
ravishment to you? I turn back to beg, wait
with me. I need to say, anticipate the return
of the body. But you have already moved ahead.

And after, outside a café, we slice baguettes, deep
grooves filled with plump roma tomatoes, split
over a sharp roquefort. You lap down the line
of seeded juice on your wrist and steal glances

at a French apple tart, pressing me for dessert,
for time to drag, weighted, perpetual. Wet
drapes spill from the awning overhead. March
rain curtains off the street, glazing our view.

Later, in heavy satisfaction and out of our heads,
you will drag me drench through the downpour,
striding heedlessly, hands clasped tight together,
against the wind, with you already boldly ahead

of me in understanding that the body was never
most important—only the joy filling this street.