On Her Passing

I have an aching in an archway of me
Produced by your passing, my dear,
Like a train.
You rumble over it
And shake
The surrounding night;
Charge with
A fast flurry of light streaming open
Like a welping wound, open, open;
Then, in an
Exultant
Wave, you are
Gone, and the
Archway is once again
Motionless,
Aching.