All those years I passed you, mornings bending
work-ward, evenings tipping homeward, watching
you laze on your side, headless but alive,
warming your breasts in the afternoon sun.
In winter you’d be naked, clay skin raked
and taut about the hip bone, but through spring
and early summer you wore a vintage
Chanel of leaf-shoot bouclé, sharp-trimmed with
I miss you in that jacket,
but one day I’ll be coming back to take
the path home to you. Then, burrowing deep
I’ll drink the sap of you, and quickened by
hares that dance the belly of you, will let
myself be sewn into your tapestry.