Where You Are Not

I walk the campus
think I see two shadows:
yours, tall, thin, leaning forward
mine, short, squat, leaning into you.
But I am holding my own hand
carrying books, plans,
papers not yet graded.

Later I drove our
old red station wagon
to the woods
walked in withering
hemlocks
blue jays squawked
small gold finches
flew away;
and you were not there.

Days later at the symphony
red sequins and shine
found me feverish
hair hiding face
I felt sleep
found me
on shoulders not yours.

Leaving Vivaldi early,
I knew the lake was near
I would not look
at the gleaming
nor listen to waves;
they are always
crashing.