In Drawers

Even if all you'll ever be again
is a sketch in a drawer
or a half-written song,

these are parts of you
I can't bear to get rid of--
lead scratches on crumpled paper

that carry traces of your
presence to my fingertips
and even as my hands tremble

I can't let go of what's left of you.

In my nightmares this is an
empty house except for those
pictures and notes tucked away

where I can barely stand to visit
and in my waking hours I treasure
meaningless things you toss in drawers

like the very cup Christ drank from
and in these things you seem
not to recognize the remnants

of the way you once saved me.