Each night you walk out 
of your body 
on the side of a road 
in Kerhonkson, New York. 
Aunt Judy’s white Buick 
is still running
and the headlights open
cylindrical white holes 
in the air. There’s a noise 
like a child’s idea 
of time, and medallions 
of ice hang from the bare 
branches. You stand 
next to the open door. 
I approach from behind,
but do not touch you, 
this our agreement – 
love as a gesture but not 
beyond it. Your clothes 
hang as if draped 
from the body 
of an invisible man.
Do I reach you, I who 
cannot hold you. 
Are you here, 
alive in what tense 
of your life. A wind 
blows your clothes 
to the ground. 
I fold them 
on the seat of the car.