For Wang Wei. And Fiona.

Here, autumn has not yet plucked the last

of the leaves. Evening mist has nothing to hold

but the trees. It’s that time of day, that time of year, when

poems come. That ache to be here, to be heard. Surely,

soon? You relieve it with love, always have. My dear,

I saw you pick up his scarf on our way out,

the old one you said he won’t wear any more.

I see you wearing it now, worn side in.