The Day Flies Off Without Me
John Stammers
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.
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