Leaving Earth

I told you not to go out there
unless you wanted to stay.
Deep in the house, deep in yourself
part of you sits still and part of
you is moving, this way and that.

The train I hear late sounds like
it is moving away to the south,
a long cruising whale sliding
through the night, sounding.

You stand still, that mysterious
extension still swaying.
The sliding glass door hisses and you 
could be on your way to St Louis.
It is a long walk,
probably three hours by train.

But you would be leaving earth
wouldn't you?
Leaving the tea kettle,
the fresh bread, the dog's telemetry,
the children calling you in the evening.
The umpire of whiffle ball, the
referee of 21 in the driveway,
the driveby window's shadow
in the diamond night.

Tonight I hand carried you
across the threshold and you
lived a while here in the kitchen
crunching a bowl of food,
letting me stand there
in your black stream.
Right there at the meeting of noses,
mine scentless, yours so capable,
we touched,  you released me,
and I fell back to earth.
I called out your two names.
The first means where?
the second, come.
Your world can not be my earth,
only a summary of my affection.

Now you are on the corner
of your world   among the
street light shadows of rabbits.
Your darkness fuses with shrubs.
Your breath,  stealth.