The Day Flies Off Without Me
The planes bound for all points everywhere etch lines on my office window.
From the top floor London recedes in all directions, and beyond:
the world with its teeming hearts.
I am still, you move,
I am a point of reference on a map;
I am at zero meridian as you consume the longitudes.
The pact we made to read our farewells
exactly at two in the afternoon
with you in the air
holds me like a heavy winter coat.
Your unopened letter is in my pocket, beating.