Soft Basket, 2017 edit

On my shoulder
— slung on straps,
in three kinds of grasses,
three colors thickly-striped,
woven to a shape something like
a flattened plum —
a basket holds
my shadow-self,
a river’s stones,
cool hollows where my
bare feet feel the earth,
the cool of spume
and morning suns,
the cooler tenth-month moon,
and, hanging in the apple tree,
a hooped wicker basket
of brinjals and walnuts
and, on a table below,
an emergency lantern.
Provisions to feed
and lamp to light
my how’s.
How
ten years ago
I dreamed your name
and dreamed
your call
and dreamed your hair,
my fingers there,
our quiet talk,
our kisses
between words.