And what you don’t know is:
I carved our names in a tree the day before I left,
far back, safe from the saw.
I keep a silver bell, carved with fish, two.
I keep a spider with a crystal thorax. Both
housed in a cheap wooden box.
I breathe your name before I sleep. Why?
The wool scarf you once gave me, red and plaid,
is now soft and still warms my neck.