he's probably going to walk the dog
today. gonna gather selfhood in the woods.
i think the rain reddens his face
and hair. i'm sewing a quilt out of
pieced what and evers -- rusted change
i've stolen from his pockets. i put
lace on the edges and call him mine.

we talk occasionally maybe. leaves
turn and i'm left bare. please --
will he brush my hair after the rain
and call it his? give me the dog and
his leash. i step over dead trees.
once i liked the woods.

once he liked my hair. i washed his
until he smelled like me. he ran with
dogs -- with face to the rain. i held
too much trust in needles and thread --
slowly gave him back his change in pieces.
sticks. remnant stumps and floating logs.
i am brushfires seething red. i'd
burn somewhere besides my heart -- but
he'd rather trample on bedraggled. he's
part cold part wet and out of change.

today the dog ran home to me. stick
bedecked with tattered lace. we
played fetch and remembered rust.