You are
so far:
if I tell you
that small green
throbs of ice have
formed night
colonies in the
fir needles,

& that horns
wail car to car,
crying out
for you,
"Where did you go?"

you'll just have
to believe
my reports.

But when
I turn off
this lamp,
and the shadow
snaps from
my hand,
up across
the wall
into the dark -

love,
when you rise
this morning,
that sweet shadow
that slips through
your teeth
was mine.