You weren't well or really ill yet either；

    just a little tired， your handsomeness

    tinged¹ by grief or anticipation²， which brought

    to your face a thoughtful， deepening grace.

    I didn't for a moment doubt you were dead.

    I knew that to be true still， even in the dream.

    You'd been out——at work maybe？——

    having a good day， almost energetic.

    We seemed to be moving from some old house

    where we'd lived， boxes everywhere， things

    in disarray³： that was the story of my dream，

    but even asleep I was shocked out of the narrative⁴

    by your face， the physical fact of your face：

    inches from mine， smooth-shaven， loving， alert.

    Why so difficult， remembering the actual look

    of you？ Without a photograph， without strain？

    So when I saw your unguarded， reliable face，

    your unmistakable gaze opening all the warmth

    and clarity of you——warm brown tea——we held

    each other for the time the dream allowed.

    Bless you. You came back， so I could see you

    once more， plainly， so I could rest against you

    without thinking this happiness lessened⁵ anything，

    without thinking you were alive again.