The Nearness Of You

When I’ve finally put the sweet
and sour away, stashed
the pokes and pulls of the day
in smoke and someday memoir,

when I’m done with preparation
and forethought, I turn off everything
and turn to you.  You stand by
crisp with affection in the cool air

of summer’s end, saying simply
that I should be satisfied to be
caught only by your eye and hand.
I am, I say, and mean it for once;

I let this constant wreck and reckoning
go and, alive with the present, for once
allow yesterday and tomorrow to be themselves:
unreal memory and possibility —

separate, equal,
but of far less import
than the nearness,
and now, of you.