When I am away from you I sometimes tell our story to myself,
starting with the moment we began, filling in the blanks and darkness—

not enough time, or not recounted—until I come to our front door.
Here I am!  Stepping over the sill, though it’s not me I’m looking for,

but the moment after, when you discover me, curious intruder come
to stay, and you begin to tell me what I am about to tell you now:

There is a fabric in the backroom made of braided pieces of our lives,
all the colors stitched and burning.  The evening’s cool.

Let’s spread it out and sit beneath its tent, our shoulders touching.
Sometimes we don’t know love unless we turn into the dark a little, or miss

a meal, or eat too long with strangers, then discover we want only a table
between us and our hands reaching toward the soup pot with our empty bowls.
                                                                                                2/1-9/15/1989