The Presence In Absence

Poetry is not made of words.

I can say it's January when

it's August. I can say, "The scent

of wisteria on the second floor

of my grandmother's house

with the door open onto the porch

in Petaluma," while I'm living

an hour's drive from the Mexican

border town of Ojinaga.

It is possible to be with someone

who is gone. Like the silence which

continues here in the desert while

the night train passes through Marfa

louder and louder, like the dogs whining

and barking after the train is gone. 

Linda Gregg