Dabbing lather across my chin, I picture you: bent low
over the tap, drinking from your cupped hands.
You probably aren’t even up yet. Hair a tangle
on the covers, eyelids made pale by the sun.
Sweeping the back step I find a cricket,
wings laced with frost. The leaves keep falling.
I look for you in all the things that are not you.
The plate of milk, left by the cat, sours.
You must be filling the red tea pot
with water now, measuring green tea.
The birds wing their way south. They take
the sky with them, each black scrap.