Sunday mornings I would reach

    high into his dark closet while standing

    on a chair and tiptoeing reach

    higher， touching， sometimes fumbling

    the soft crowns and imagine

    I was in a forest， wind hymning

    through pines， where the musky scent

    of rain clinging to damp earth was

    his scent I loved， lingering on

    bands， leather， and on the inner silk

    crowns where I would smell his

    hair and almost think I was being

    held， or climbing a tree， touching

    the yellow fruit， leaves whose scent

    was that of a clove in the godsome

    air， as now， thinking of his fabulous

    sleep， I stand on this canyon floor

    and watch light slowly close

    on water I'm not sure is there