An old poem for an old poem

I am posting this in fulfilment of a promise to a good friend. Chosen not for merit, but simply because this is the last poem I have written.

Her Jumper

Her immobile jumper languors lonely across
my un-used amp, not un-like a painted nude.
That arcane, unmoved juniper jumper, imbued
with some of her encompass; its warm comprisal
mine on loan. Accommodating its arrival,
my room shifted like sighing lungs describing a loss
of un-used air. Remembered, her voice draws a chord
of forbidden song, but I know; text not thy lord
so I never asked her number, I see the sense
of the order of things. Her dead jumper alone
can embrace away cold and it lies still where thrown:
soap-sud stubble and careless creases, just one massive absence

(14th May '05)