Even though we know now
your clothes will never
be needed, we keep them,
upstairs in a locked trunk.
Sometimes I kneel there
touching them, trying to relive
time you wore them, to catch
the actual shape of arm and wrist.
My hands push down
between hollow, invisible sleeves,
hesitate, then take hold
and lift:
a green holiday; a red christening;
all your unfinished lives
fading through dark summers
entering my head as dust.