I make the space around you, and so allow you shape

I thought I'd lost you. But you said I'm imbued 

 

in the fabric of things, the way 

wax lost from batik shapes 

the pattern where the dye won't take.

I make the space around you,

and so allow you shape. And always

you'll feel the traces of that wax

soaked far into the weave:

the air around your gestures,

the silence after you speak.

That's me, that slight wind between

your hand and what you're reaching for;

chair and paper, book or cup:

that close, where I am: between

where breath ends, air starts.

 

[Mark Doty {1953- }, "2" from 'Where You Are', in Fire to Fire: New and Selected Poems]