for D.
Summer country. In the morning the leaves
bend
to the window and fold
the house in. Mountains and sun. I fold
the blankets, hand smooth. When
you’re here
I know it. The sun crosses
the hand’s breadth—
and in your face
the unenterable
image. Under
your eyelids
night unfolds. Pull
the blanket over you
and with it
the darkened air.
from: Somehow, copyright © 2005 by Burt Kimmelman.
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