Mantras

i’m eating a donut in the shower
and reciting your poetry like a spell,
hoping desperately to conjure
your amused apparition

halfway through your chapbook
i can see your edges,
a chalk outline that fled its inceptive scene

your stanzas mark time on a calendar
less gregorian than lunisolar,
tracking the full moons since we fell in love—
and look how far the dippers have moved.

i come to the last verse
that you finished in the village,
transcribing the arched Empire
as it crooned low
in magic hour

your best lines become my mantras,
soulfood when i’m hungry and
sleepchants when i’m lying awake,
and now finally, refrain, i can
see your face