Forensics

Forensics

Your handwriting lies sleeping in
the flyleaves of books: curled whorls

of biro, your singular, star-spangled
flourish; and no matter how often I hoover,

I sense that the carpet is sweet with
your dust, dense with the uncountable,

microscopic sprinkles of your skin.
The air swims with atoms that have

twostepped in the ballroom of your
lungs, pressed to your laugh; I breathe

them every day. Furthermore, and
everywhere, although I have no proof

I know it to be true, just as I have
never seen a full, round, planet Earth

but know it to be so: your fingerprints,
your many invisible masterstrokes,

thumbnail Van Goghs rendered in
raised swirls of oil could be anywhere

you rested your songbird hands; each
place you revived with your fingertips.