What you don’t understand –
because I didn’t tell you –
is that I call “blowing into donkeys’ nostrils”
The conversation between our feet
as I felt the smallest movement from your calf
brought home the I know, I understand,
you are good for me too.
When I noticed the quiet –
I need you to understand – my loathe
of your absent presence pained me
when I saw your body missing from its place.
Understand, too, I’m not so sentimental to keep
the symbols of your fingers’ care
put at attention like players appealing
against my instinct to toss them.
What I don’t understand, often,
is what I should do in relation to you
knowing that what I want has the possibility
of not being the whole truth.
I understood too, that later I would
take the blankets – now washed and drying-
into the hug of my arms
and smell you, breathing deeply, reliving.