Not the memorized phone numbers.
The carefully rehearsed short cuts home.
Not the summer, shimmering like pavement, when
Lucia
pushed Billy off the rabbit house and broke his
arm,

or our tiny footprints in the back files.
Not the list of kings from Charlemagne to Henry
not the boxes under our beds
or Tommy's wedding day when it was so hot and
Mark played the flute
and we waved at him waving from the small round
window in the loft,

the great gangs of people stepping one by one into
the cold water.

I have, of course, a photograph:
you and I getting up from a couch.

Full height, I stand almost two inches taller than
you
but the photograph doesn't show that,
just the two of us in motion
not looking at each other, smiling.

Not even the way we said things, leaning against
the...