I will not look to the desert of my landscape to find you, dear, who is not there.
I will not look for your hands or the half-moons rising in the valleys of your fingernails,
I will not search for the musty smell of your scalp,
the dash of lashes around you eyes,
the curve of your ear,
deep wrinkle of your brow.
I will not find you in a waiting room thinking of god
or in the woods, though I may hear a memory of you there,
maybe the vapor of a long-ago time
when you and I looked for agates,
when you and I weeded the garden,
when you and I marveled at the size of zucchini leaves in July.
I will not find you in my lungs
or on my skin
or behind my weary knee.
And I will not find you listening to wind in bamboo,
or water pouring from a hose.
I will not find you, my darling.
I will not find you.