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.