By the end of the day, the tree behind the house
will drop all of its leaves—pools gather beneath it now.
In this pile, you are fishing line: in this pile, I am nightfall and you
looking out to see it (somewhere has never been where you are).
I will lift this leaf from its place on the walk.
It has no special meaning, a handshake, really.
Your hands are simple tools.
We are the pieces inside them you are sprinkling into anthills.
The ends of my fingers are dreams.
I thought I should tell you that
in case you felt the tiny dollops
of their embrace.
