He falls loose, a leaf,
to bed. But not as light. 

His arms keep coming
home, yes, but heavier

than they left, some other
flesh by sap and dirt,

a kind of night
never leaving his wrists.

Sometimes he wraps it
tight about his head.

Sometimes a band of sky
slips down my hip. 

The whole room
swells with him.

But the woods. Each morning
he goes back to them

and brings them
their own scent