In Another Country

If Baroque were more than a manner

of music, it would be this last afternoon.

Sun, disciplined by hours, moves slowly

across the floor. The shadows of pears

in the basket compose a pattern

described only once. If you spoke now,

it would be a kind of violence troubling

the skin of the moment. We have stepped

out of the past and the future waits

without us. Outside, the wind ruffles grass,

invisibly bending each blade. A single piano note

repeated without variation floats across

the lawn. Naked, we are suddenly strange,

in time again, you are already moving away

from me. Yesterday, we walked

saying the names of streets and trees,

bringing them forever into us. Later,

you came behind me in the doorway, slid

your arms around my waist. I wanted to ask

if you had said everything, but only

said your name. Tomorrow,

it will all be different. Already,

I see you in a hotel room, curtain

half-drawn. You will sit in profile

unfolding the news of another country.

The same sky will go on reinventing

itself. I will put on the clothes

laid out the night before

while the morning stains with traffic.

I will slice grapefruit

and wonder if distance

will give us back to ourselves.