I walked into a room, and you were not
standing there. There was no shape
of your red canvas shoes in the carpet.
Or the heft of you green ballon by the window.
I lowered myself into the car
where we drove you after the treatment.
And you were not looking up, out and over
into the light falling through the trees.
I woke up and you had not
followed me from he dream
where you, in the willow-weeds
of the bayou, said to me.
I am asleep, and I am not there
in the morning were the cat is screaming,