Missing Brassiere

It might be with the tablecloths
or under the bed or in the sheets
or on the chair beneath the other
discarded clothes of passion
It might be by the shower door
the closet door the bedroom door
or out by the roses or under the peach tree
next to the cucumbers —
after the party, unclasped and thrown
against some heap
after the guests had gone to sleep
tucked in their distant beds by three in the morning
At three we were in —
or were we out?
The chill was out the air was sweet
we must have been in
beneath the sheets the limbs the skin
the tender treats the honey
the lips the tongue undone
The hours rocked us nearer sleep
but next to fleeting dreams
we touched and touched
until the day rose up
and we rose too
to coffee and tea and more love
in the garden
It might be with the paper goods
the bags of breads
the sweaters and vests that warmed
the guests as night rose up around us
It might be in the closet still
or in a drawer or in a tree
For all I know it might be here
beneath the cushion on my sea
The bra is gone but she is near
her breasts exquisite nipples near
and free the sun or moonlight
near but it is gone
an absence quite indelible
as if its loss now threatens doom
appearing one dull afternoon
when meetings stir or neighbors pass
or those ex-lovers lounge on grass
It might rise up and scream, I’m here
I’m here I’ve always been right here
beside you two in day in night
in love sweet love sweet acrobats
of on and off and in-between like shaking leaves
like wind like breeze like kisses breathing air
between two sets of lungs as summer breathed
It will appear, the question — when? and who
will fumble with those clasps
and will love last past light against
her neck her knees the moon the sun
my heart undone
and autumn in the garden.

From Simon Says.