With him went the rail of shirts
the empty skins of him
soft as birthday gifts.
The line of tilted shoes
left imprints
of their heels
and circles in the dust
on shelves were ghosts
of things he owned.
(She found space sighed
and closed round her.
Filling itself simply.)
Years on she finds
the shirts come back
twisted in the backpacks
of her sons,
returned from weekends
with their dad.
They are sly clothes
soft as memories.
Fill themselves with air
on the line
and dress the shapes
of him in them
tricking her
in awkward light
to think he never left.
