Vacancy

When a young person goes out 
in search of their life, 
however one tries to imagine them,
it's their body and substance one misses,
the rub and resin of them, 
by which I don't mean just the touch
(the rasp of a voice is a thing I love),
not just surfaces, but whatever glows
from beneath, satin or eggshell,
the weft and warp of plaited hair
a mother could put her hand to, could do for a child,
and not just that, their shadow, the footfall  
one expects to hear in the hall or on the steps
momentarily—before one thinks.