Ten Weeks for Alison   I’m like a widower in winter; ten weeks is a tad too long. I miss your gossip over coffee, your skin’s slow, reminiscent song   of when, still not two decades back, our bodies reached a wild entente that rose into our minds as well supplying all a pair might want   when rubbed a little by the years. We chose to keep our separate houses. Those first excitements stir me still. Each week, another dream arouses   souvenirs I thought had cooled. They flock into this spring and throng. The day is warm with…