Haunting

It rests upon me still, a hand pressed
to the small of my back,

a dumb weight clutched
by one hand, the other shaking.

(I thought you’d like to know.)

I sit in the same backstage shadows,
follow the same path that carries along the canal,

the rusted swings we plunged away in
like courting fourteen year olds.

(And you’re not here —)

What’s the city like? The one you live in now?
It looms sometimes on the news channels

I click through idly, directionless
until arrested by some small detail:

the upward tilt of a woman’s chin,
the desert of a station platform.

(I’m looking, I know —)