in the slack dark of the dampest, most
tired spring evening—while they are trying
to sleep & you’re rambling—
& the day after, too, in the heathland,
between blocks of mushroom & the crunch
of pulverising shoe—while you unravel & they
are so natural in listening—
to have someone paint the needle-thin petals
on every flower for you—to have someone love
you so easy—to remind you of the miracle
of breathing