You weren't well or really ill yet either;

just a little tired, your handsomeness

tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought

to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace.



I didn't for a moment doubt you were dead.

I knew that to be true still, even in the dream.

You'd been out--at work maybe?--

having a good day, almost energetic.



We seemed to be moving from some old house

where we'd lived, boxes everywhere, things

in disarray: that was the story of my dream,

but even asleep I was shocked out of the narrative



by your face, the physical fact of your face:

inches from mine, smooth-shaven, loving, alert.

Why so difficult, remembering the actual look

of you? Without a photograph, without strain?



So when I saw your unguarded, reliable face,

your unmistakable gaze opening all the warmth

and clarity of you--warm brown tea--we held

each other for the time the dream allowed.



Bless you. You came back, so I could see you

once more, plainly, so I could rest against you

without thinking this happiness lessened anything,

without thinking you were alive again.