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 outat 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 youwarm brown teawe 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.
