Yesterday I thought I saw you
between blinks of an eye:
a lecture together and notes
left behind for curls and a sharp jawline;
the same old eyes exchanged.
Your profile rather than Descartes’
in my mind, your smile more to me
than any meditation: I exist
only in the rouge of autumn. Street lamp, tree.
Lecture over, we swapped colleges for a while
and there was you, perfectly framed in my window seat,
memories like skeleton leaves shivering against the door.
The only reason I knew it was a dream
is that you talked to me.
