Women there are whose perfume
is ruinous and fine—they’re thirty.
After the snarled tangle and cave-in
of the war my hands so seldom want to.
I took you to see your younger sister
beyond the suburb’s brow: just anyone
who feels at home in the hours.
Journey of sacred slowness
to what you mean, my little word.
The woods are mine, pre-sounds
and post-sounds, where I can be
alone with your large photograph.
Last night I stepped out to take down laundry
and took all of the wind, all of the north, in my arms.