Evening swells and spills
across his back and farther.
I collect handfuls.

Because my love cannot be the orchestra,
I have hidden it in the glissandos;
do not listen for it when the music swells,
but in the resonance of in betweens.


Because my love cannot be the whole summer,
I have strapped it to the legs of bees;
do not look for it in flowered fields,
but in the pollen stuck to window screens.

May gave us tall grass.
Clumsy hands pressed my clean hair
into the cool mud.

Where do poems go when you lose them?
Blurred by tears,
Swept out to sea,
Past sharp rocks,
Found by lonely fishermen,
Their fingers tracing waves.