Driving Away

When I try to replace you
with another thought,
you say to me,
I could try being
that small fox you saw this morning,
hurtling from the woods.
Then, when I notice,
through the gravel smoke,
that you’ve spotted me again,
I’d ricochet back
into the forest
of your mind.

It doesn’t

It doesn’t matter what you lost.
It’s the manner in which you did.
As if love were actually a skin,
Not a coat whose pockets
Ceased to become pockets,
A material closed around hands,
But, then, an opening.