
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.