I lost you again the other night
watching the sky go
from one blue to another
coming out of the woods. I emptied my bag
in front of the fire.
Here I am, standing
in the branched cucumber light
fogging the lawn.
I am crouched
under the draped cloths
of spring days falling
in sequence. What do you
remember? I loved you a lot
in vain. “You don’t have to.”
You called out to me
across the kitchen
as I rinsed a plate.
Stay where you are. I tell myself
with my brown hair tied up over the sink.
See you in the next life.
Years ago, one night when I was sad, I asked for a sign;
I’ve forgotten why.
All I remember now
is that two deer stepped onto the beach below:
their hooves clinked when they crossed the shale,
and when they walked up the beach,
their hoof prints filled with seawater.
Each pool held a moon.
I sat on that rock and tried to understand what it meant.
The stink of kelp floated closer;
coarse fronds washed back and forth
while the sea breathed below me.
Now I know it wasn’t a sign.
It was just thirty or forty holes, shining.