I carve no wooden images of your face
and neither sit with fingers poised at my ear,
yet the sound of your name in the dark
is moonlight glancing off an unlit chandelier;
it is the desert dawn, without birdsong
a silent wash of colours, gloriously austere.
No images, yet the cup shakes in my hand,
its quicksilver contents tremble with reflections here.
I don’t scribble the letters of your name
when I sit alone, I don’t engineer
signs that might make you feel closer,
within my countries somewhere near;
yet the skinfolds of my own knuckles
become your prints, some souvenir
that has been smudged across my hands.
No names, yet what I write is not unclear.