A Memory of You

This is how you chose to visit me:
not in a hollow-voiced dream
where you walk through glass smears
as if from another room.

Not in a radio song battered
by wind stream spackle
with words this time in tune,
tobacco tar at your tongue.

Not in the silver scent
of spiced cologne or steak sauce,
stinging nostrils and lungs
and tingling the body’s edges.

No, rather in a poem
conjured in half-mist morning;
not from relics or fossils
but from an empty place you must’ve been.