recall

this afternoon i thought of you, thinking of the days
we tore the laundry off the line and then ran
to avoid being caught:

the freshening clothes hanging on the line; you,
running into the sheets, hiding between them,
burying your face into the stiff cotton, the air-smell.

it had been a while since i saw sheets on a line
but tonight, right in the backyard of the apartment,
two fitted sheets hung, billowing in the slight breeze,

and i dropped the briefcase and went right up to one
and stuck my face up close and breathed air and sun
and your breath.

you are the bed i lie in.
you’re everything i learned as a kid.
you left before i could tell you so.

i forget that most days, except when
there are sheets on the line that smell
of dried rain in blue percale,

but i can’t sleep when they’re on my bed,
so i throw them in the dryer.
it’s better that way.