In my dreams, you’re always in a hurry,
looking for our friend who’s long gone
from our waking. Your shirt buttoned

crooked, your hair lying back at an odd
angle, you look as if you’ve just awakened,
too, from searching for him who has slipped

away somewhere. But most disturbing,
now that you are gone, too, is that I am
out on the street between buildings trying

to surmise which way you might have taken off—
whether it is the same as his going. I feel,
looking each way down shining bricks,

that barbershop-mirror effect: The afternoon
we sat in our sheets, in three chairs,
waving both ways at endless reflections.