Sunday mornings I would reach
high into his dark closet while standing
on a chair and tiptoeing reach
higher， touching， sometimes fumbling
the soft crowns and imagine
I was in a forest， wind hymning
through pines， where the musky scent
of rain clinging to damp earth was
his scent I loved， lingering on
bands， leather， and on the inner silk
crowns where I would smell his
hair and almost think I was being
held， or climbing a tree， touching
the yellow fruit， leaves whose scent
was that of a clove in the godsome
air， as now， thinking of his fabulous
sleep， I stand on this canyon floor
and watch light slowly close
on water I'm not sure is there