print previewback MARK JARMAN
Old Haunts
for T.W.
You left a token for him every place you’d lived,
he’d lived, a card tipped
against a flight of steps, or in a tree’s embrace,
or laid nakedly on leaves.
You wrote no name, no address,
and in the message area of each
a phrase from a poem
with a meaning that was secret.
It was a time of day when no one
was coming home from work or going to work
and every place you’d lived,
he’d lived, was within reach.
It was a sunny day for lightweight coats in fall
and silhouettes and shadows
where you’d both walked,
a sunny mild open day for ghosts. 
Old Haunts
Our Father Who Art Somewhere Now, We Hope