When I call for you, my throat

on hot pillows, here inside this small

room, here beside the suddenness 
                      of stone 
            where herds
pass through, running the length

of high walls—I see you were always

already here: unity of pitch, 
                      spill 
            of silver
making even with what little is here,

a basketwork of light. Your low hymn

I know for the way, settling on my skin, 
                   the feathers
            winter, 
the cricket rounds the ground,

taproots turn in dark acres and we bend

down, coming and going 
                      through 
         the same dream, 
reminding me again,

even the heap of yesterday’s

clothes on the floor
                      admits 
            starlight