Months on, the couch yields up this find,
a loop of silk that used to bind
your tumbling tresses back:

a souvenir in gold and blue,
unsought residuum of you,
potent as Armagnac.

You’ll never sit just here again,
never come home on the evening train,
but how you haunt the air!

That you’re not here — how can it be
when still you fill the night for me,
and still let down your hair?