A Dying Race

The less I visit, the more I think
myself back to your elegant house
I grew up in. The drive uncurled
through swaying chestnuts discovers
it standing four square, white-
washed unnaturally fresh and exact
as if it were shown me by lightning.

It's always the place I see,
not you; you're somewhere outside,
waving goodbye where I left you
a decade ago. I've even lost sight
of losing you now; all I can find
are the mossy steps you stood on,
-a visible loneliness.

I'm living four counties away
and cannot escape it: you moving
...