He came back. I saw him
in the grass, the white of him
glowing in the floodlight,
the wind turning it off
and on again.
I saw his face at the door,
waiting to be let in,
his nose leaving smears
across the glass.
Days later I heard him
in the kitchen pacing blindly
for his supper and
that night a soft crinkle
as he shifted in his bed.
Love wants to be fed.
It will return
again and again,
holding a memory
firmly in its jaws, and
you must throw or keep.
It will grow old,
too weak to walk.
You’ll carry it everywhere
at the end until it nods,
turns in a circle,
lies down.