It is one of those moments that tugs
incorporeally at the innards
like late afternoon
the back yard at Kentuck Knob in October
or dinner after a long day
at Cape Henlopen; sex barely wiped
from fingers breaking
crab shells, extracting the meat
with what looks like a dentist’s hook.
Because they are stood in or walked through
they can’t be held on a screen
or printed on paper
let alone relived
even dreaming. The gravity of softest light
redefines the hues of leaves, borrows
ten minutes and shortens each time
it is remembered.
A hired hand sweeps up the shells,
collects empty cans and glasses.
The drive is quiet
on deer-crossed roads
winding up, falling back.
The tune of the radio—violin and vibraphone—
is all you take home.