Five
The parting of strangers is bitter
By far for what is left
For Dickinson: Four
Astonished at your perfumed
Rose, rising to my breath;
For Atwood: Three
I wish to drown what haunts you
It fills the back of your eyes
Two
Faint traceries of wind are
All curling ‘round your crown.
After Emily Dickinson #55: One
I saw your cabin, stranger,
Below the clouds and trees.