i'm done, she said, working for other people.
and there was left, a little shape beneath the moon.
running with scissors they did one time, just to prove it, i remember.
i went back to that place, briefly.
as a wanderer its easy to become comfortable.
i suppose, well now. we were lucky to share that bed.
she brought me sunflowers, like the poem.
they hang drearily now.
because i can't take care of things that will die anyway.
how did we ever find each other? i said.
a miracle. he said.
and that was that.