When I part the curtains,
her indigo jeans still hang
on the clothesline, legs spread
as I remember her last evening.
We listened to Mozart
and drank red wine.
Later, sprawled over the bed,
I played with her, with that soft part of her
that I can’t say. Can’t name.
Speech is not everything.
Confined in silence, yet could I
there speak my piece in tongues.