Christina Cook

Just Last Week

We watch shadows stretch daylight
as far as they can,

then gather themselves
into a single vision of evening.

A hawk becomes one
with the hemlock it lands in,

giving shape to a space
more spare than itself.

The day knows nothing
about its own fall,

but the birds will bring it down,
song by song,

to the place of low slant light.
I sit by your empty bed,

fingering the zipper I broke
off your sweater when,

just last week,
you said you were cold.

 

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