little apron

how did she stand it

how did she make her way up the mountain every morning

a solitary white figure

in a gown

and little apron

washing off the omissions

from the day before

in nothing but sunlight

and foxgloves

and the snake passing through the garden

how did she look to the morning

with such friendship

when I

look at it now like a beetle

with long legs

crouching in a corner

when I know that lately

the fault

lies with me

that I am foolish

that i start myself

by counting on another

by wishing

by shaking my fists

and there she walks

toward the moonlight

covered in the dust of her day

straight and filled with something

private and

song like

and I tear at myself

for nothing

imagination

knowing what’s true

and slapping its face

for all its frank care

I am glad she cannot see me

gathered up in my daydreams

waking scared

tapping my fingers for reimbursement

all of me

like some kind of pencil doodle

flaked out on a napkin

while she stands 
a mighty stroke in silence

with only a slight twitch in her pale hand

to let me know

that her life

is a loaded gun