Worn

He’s cleaning out the trunk in which his clothes 

are stored for summer, bathing suits, surf shorts, 

swimming goggles, neatly folded beach shirts,

all laundered, put in plastic, and then closed

away—and finds a black and silky bra, 

some short shorts with a tiny waist, a sleek 

black top, all empty of her, as is he, 

although she ghosts through him all night and gnaws

his dreams. They were so close he thought he wore 

her like a skin, as she wore him till they 

wore out. When doubt crawled in, she stored away 

her love and latched the trunk and left. It seems

he catches just a whiff of her somewhere

in the blouse. No, it’s clean. Too clean, too clean.