For L.


If I called you tonight
it would be the last call
I ever make
your voice would grow husky and break
then I would wait
in tense breathless suspense
until your engine cut out
in my driveway
and I was sliding open the door
to let you in
dark and bright as before

two years erased
in a tight embrace
arms enfolding, breasts pressing
breath passing between our lips
the bold insistence of your hips
palms and tongues exploring
the lost reaches of a forgotten dream
like lonely children
whose parents suddenly return
from long vacations abroad
and give them everything they want

so I look for you everywhere
every yellow station wagon
in the parking lot across the street
on the section of road I last saw you
each spot still hot with your being
hoping you'll appear in my waiting room
in your burning red dress
or on the stretch we walked at Maalaea
someone I thought I could forget
blazing like a coal in the wind