When he came to my house he tracked in autumn flowers
like he was visiting from another planet.
Then we sat down. A lime-yellow dust hung in the air
and shimmered on our fingers and the surface of the tea.
Later I called him to say hello, to make sure
he’d shoveled the snow from his driveway, gone to work
but he hadn’t. It will melt eventually, he said.
Then we were quiet, the winter taking hold.
After a long January and a long February
I pushed open my window and climbed up on the roof.
The highway swept the sky with light. I thought,
and could remember his smell but not his voice.
I called to see if the igloo
had turned back into a house. He said it had.
I invited him to come by again sometime,
but it seems one chance is all
for most things. When he left,
he had walked backwards down the stairs,
backwards through the yard, and, bowing down,
folded himself into his car, where he disappeared.
