I wish that you were here—I’ve settled my life

into this void filled to the brim with your absence.

And maybe the mystery lies in precisely

this fact—if the world sprung into existence,

it happened the moment you left.

A calling out

remains, abandoned clothes, abandoned space,

a dog, who all year goes into the street

to where he saw you last—inside the gate

where trash collects and keeps the crumpled ball

of a partial list of what to buy, to fix,

to give away, a number to call. Fantastic

vacation plans. I charge you twice for tickets,

since what about return?

The dog herewith,

what does he do, what is his status between

points A and B, will he be enticed by a whiff

of the forest, the snow, the world beyond this street?