20.

The tongue is spare: the wind lifts on the dirt road

The wild strawberries hang by the gate. Dust

Clings to her thighs, the rain still on her clothes.

Memory seeps in the gravel: the geese

Squawk by the shore, rise and vee high in the sky

And vanish like a friend strewn in the years.

She might be pausing on him in her haste

But probably not. He would lie on the dock

And sway to the waves, look her way askance

And say nothing. She could feel his imagined gaze

On the small of her back: she was surprised

At her cool moist lips. Time could not do that.