To Ian, on Returning to D.C.

This cannot be the same place,
because here it is raining,
and I associate you with the sun-
with the scent of waves and burning sand,
with beads of salt on your neck
and pink tinges of tan beneath your eyes.

Even when we traveled here the sun followed.
So I remember you gleaming,
know this field baking and lazy
like the tune of the too-slow carousel,
the halfheartd droning of insects
and other's conversations.

I cannot find you today, because it is cold,
and rain has seeped through all my layers,
thin layers over sunscreen and anticipation.
Today you are not here to chide me,
to cover the clinging nakedness of a white blouse
with your body, your jacket, your words.

In this place, I move quick through quiet crowds.
I cross streets without stopping.
I sneak past paying tours and get lost in galleries.
I sit on benches alone and share my lunch
with a homeless man who tells me
about sandwiches, museums and his diabetes.

After many hours I remember that it was you -not me-
who noticed when I was hungry, tired or faint.
I imagine you lifting me, almost too smoothly to feel,
and my body yeilding and light as a child's, my face nodding warm against you,
listening to your soft lectures in the shade.

It is all shade today.
In the chill I do not recognize the places we stopped-
the intersections where you kept firm hold of me,
the trees I can't remember if we climbed,
buildings which loom foreign and displaced ahead-
and the dangers your eyes were always scanning.

I searched all day for you- for our ghosts,
for the impressions our bodies left in the grass,
our reflections in pools and windows-
but it was raining, and our field was fenced.
Walking towards it, my ankle twisted in the mud,
and I caught myself.