When you have left me the sky drains of color like the skin of a tightening fist. The sun commences its gold prowl batting at tinsel streamers on the electric fan. Crouching I hide in the coolness I stole from the brass rods of your bed.
A green light that comes when you never saw it coming, never heard it, felt it, but you knew it like the woman in the sandlot behind Abram's Grill who's just lost her lenses, on her hands and knees, her hair cut short but seems as if it's flowing, and the rush on her throat like a rise from birth, the music in the car as the engine goes silent while you fold down a seat for the stashed beam lantern with its yellow plastic grip, six Ray-O-Vacs, the movement in the trees beyond Lake Michigan. It's a wave like that when the wind gets lost and the mail-boat from Racine, three hours late, cracks into a tanker, where the crew, like you, has waited on the decks, in the hold for two months out, to send a message home—or to get a certain scent, for just one instant, of weeds, in the dirt, the both of you groping.