Why won’t he look at me?
We’re in the sunroom and we’re
dancing, circling
my green dress
billows out as I
spin
from one Picasso painting to
another
It’s Wednesday morning
and he just stepped off
the plane
from London
into my sunroom
and now he’s playing
the piano
of all things
to do on a Wednesday morning
He’s singing
“pretty Miss May won’t you
sing for me today”
and,
dizzy,
I hold onto the back
of a chair
and quietly stumble in place.

On the fence
it hung
dogs nearing
me running
until I finally reached
it
the deer with its hoof caught
on the fence
I pressed
against it, smothering
it got away
and the dogs came nearer
and the trees pressed closer
I saw it again,
later,
well and beautiful.