For V.R. (1978–2000)

Vanessa called
all the way from Toronto.
She said that I
could count on her
if ever I was down and out.
After I hung up the phone
I played
the six-holed wooden flute
she gave me
on the occasion of our parting.
I figured out the fingering
and I played it better
than I had ever done.
Tears came out of my eyes
because of the sound,
and the recollection
of her extraordinary beauty
which no one could avoid,
and because she said
a song had gone missing,
and I had been selected,
out of all the unemployed,
I had been selected
to recover it.
I see you in windows
that open so wide
there's nothing beyond them,
and nothing inside.

You take off your sandals
you shake out your hair,
your beauty dismantled
and worn everywhere.

The story's been written.
The letter's been sealed.
You gave me a lily,
but now it's a field.