All the windows are open,
the Bible in storage.
In the park, a summer cardigan,
Jane Kenyon’s Otherwise on my lap.
The tulips stand redder and stay
quiet in the white of the baby’s cry.
At the grocery store, I hold
a woman’s place, her little cart almost empty:
two bananas, orange juice, brie.
I want to touch her greasy hair,
the rubber band holding it up.
Now she is returning.
Here she is again.