Missing
The page is heavy with your far-off words,
which meet like waves of wheat
in a blown-by field.
The skylark
beats its winded rhythm, comes to rest
with a sudden flummox.
I gave you a concertina, and you closed it
with both hands (which I have not seen,
because we are voices
on the ends of a tether I never expected).
What is missing
is the fiction of the space between us:
I'm invisible, and I hear your bare feet
treadling. Your fingers touch the keys,
and the words appear, like
melodies. No, not melodies. But yes.