I am concerned with your movements, your hands
kneading dough on the kitchen island, stretching
long fibres. Stretching and pressing them close.
Later you clutch tightly at your jacket, so your
hands stay still at your side
as you walk by mine.
I am concerned by your movements. You look
box canyoned, beset
by overhanging ponderosa, foxes scattering
tussocks in their passing. You look like
a last hope as the wind picks up.
Later you knead the wheel, as though you could
form it into something living.
I leave you looking back at me, looking
relieved that the storm has broken.