The Book

“To Mark Let the poetic sound of moons and stars invade your night thoughts to give you sweet dreams always for in your dreams lies the happiness you truly want. hope you enjoy the book Michelle”
–Message written on the flyleaf of a book

I saw the book–
its dustcover the azure
of the Mediterranean—
beckoning as the clear water did us,
and amid packing—
books, your books, your things–
I opened it, and remembered
how we were, lithe in the limpid blue,
then later reading this book, a gift,
you as bright as Keats’ star,
aware your blaze would soon be extinguished.

I rose with creaking knees
from the sea of boxes,
set the tear-dampened book
aside to keep, sensing your presence
like a nightlight in the next room
leaving a glow under the door,
and I thought I heard you say,
sweet dreams always, my love…