Cut
Off She gathered
up our photographs of you
and only by one cut away the high
trees above
your head, sliced through
chair legs and discarded all the sky.
You’re
intact, assembled in a frame
beside her bed. You in thin air.
You somewhere.
She can’t even name
the town or room you’re in. She couldn’t care
less
but I’ve spent ages searching the bin
for scraps of garden and the old settee,
to put them back around you, to leave you in
a place you’ll know with half
a chance to see
the light on in the yard, the kitchen door
still open
for you, wider than before.
from How
to Disappear
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