Wilderness.  Bright cupola.  Trimming the bittersweet and

raspberriesalong the marsh.  Hands reddeningeasily in

thecold

             of the air.  The salt ofit.  The particular wakefulness

ofpursuit-all-over-again.  Yes.  The rugged

                                                                      tenderness required

                                                *

tonegotiate the delicate new growth of leaves.  Tendrils. Little

invitations.  Come here,

                                      amoment.  How the sailor can become

theocean he’d meant only, he thought, to sail across.  Closer. 

No,the part

                   after that.  One of us isgoing to have to say it first.