slight vibration sets my most delicate bones in motion

Restored to me via the glossy homicide
of photographs, I examine your face.
A map of Jerusalem, holy and dangerous.
Your mouth and brow--epithets, I'm not sure
I deserve. Your hands perfect, inedible
sugar birds, perched atop a saint's
name-day cake. Your gaze an edict
I can no longer follow.

I longed to please you more
than any inner heathen or priest.
How fiercely I miss your vicinity--
your thoughts charged and dark
as breezes that brave mausoleums.

Though you've removed yourself
from the greedy reach of my five senses,
I put my ear to any ground now--
drenched or parched, planted or fallow,
and from this minute till doomsday,
I'll hear you. Parts of my skeleton
were formed just to conduct the sounds
of your footfall. That slight vibration
sets my most delicate bones in motion.
When you put your foot down, it resounds
faintly, like a dozen harps left standing
on a windy hill. If I listen intently,
nothing can muffle those notes of amnesty.
Even you can't sever that kind of connection.
[Amy Gerstler, 'Dispersion', in Bitter Angel]