The last fingers of August light ring the bell

I am standing in a doorway looking out

behind me, squares and rectangles

are whiter than the wall, clean,

where your paintings hung

we have a bowl in the hallway for keys

wallets, an old smoke alarm

a screwdriver

only its empty now except for the screwdriver

you are walking down the stairs in

a post-structuralist tizz and I can’t

find a place to put my eyes

inside, I look to wear your shoulders

should have been, naked collarbone

among a rumpled set of sheets,

but you took them too and

I stood by thinking only, it will be cold later

and my name isn’t on the power bill.