that I would stand windswept
in December on a far reach
of island, summoning
a bristle-glimpse of tail,
triangular face, flash of red
or black in the rabbited field?
Something I cannot hold
holds me, my heart yapping
beneath my coat, the corners
of my eyes tearing in the winter
air. And the one whose trotting
body appears over the rise
is so far away, I feel myself
leaning against the wind,
my hand reaching out toward
what will never turn and come.