Was it you who
Hung a gate with
No fence and
Latched it closed,
Guarding only grass
And July heat?
Something told me
I should ask.
We’ve passed in
Our cars of course,
As close to talking
As often occurs—
Each feeling
The anxious space
Of un-gardens,
Un-fields,
And that voice,
Insisting we complete
What we don’t know
Why we started.
