By Patrick Lane
You miss your woman when she’s gone.
You sleep on her side of the bed even when
you say you won’t, imagine her cut under you
like strange wool newly clipped. And fold away,
fold away. There’s broken things around you
you can’t fix. Blood in a boy’s head and a bullet
in a man. You say grief to a chickadee
and the only tears are rain. I live too much sometimes.
You miss your woman when she isn’t home.
Strange wool. That and broken things still running.