You were wide asleep. The streets
    of your aching imagination
    were filled with passengers, with the
    quickstep of dreamers,
    with the real shuffle of feet.

    You flicked through the faint
    pages, turned the thin tissue
    for obliterated faces. Your fingers
    skidded or thumbed
    through packs of lost lovers,

    caressing this one, or discarding
    another with true caprice.
    You were searching, I think, for me,
    and the abandon
    possessed you in desperation.

    I was lying, face upwards
    beside you, when you turned up
    one for the books, the road.
    I heard you scrawling
    my name in the index,

    touching what troubled you
    with the heels of your hands,
    hard. You wrote our names
    in swift italics
    on my mouth. I was fast awake.

From the book Love Poems