by Carl Sandburg
The lips of you are with me tonight.
And the arms of you are a circle of white.
The dream of it burns.
And I want you and the stars.
I want you and a sickle moon.
The finger tips of you
Five hundred miles away
Make a wireless crying flash:
I know a search that’s useless,
I know a code I don’t hunt for,
I know a face that’s gone.
Back home the hills talk to me.
Here the hills are strangers.
The lips of you are a ghost.
The arms of you are a ghost.
The red and white is empty air.