We took a sheetfrom the linewhile the afternoonwas still warm.

You held two corners.I held two.The wind took the middle.

It filled the cottonuntil a small white oceanrose between us.

“Hold still,” you said.“I am.”“I meant the sea.”

I laughedand lost a corner.

You caught itand took a bow.We had to begin again.

We brought the edges togetherslowly,stepping toward each otherthrough the grass.

Your fingers found mineinside the fold.

You kept them therea little longerthan the laundry required.

I found myself wantinganother basket,another afternoon—years of your faceappearing above the hem.

All around us,the rest of the washingwent onwith its enormous opinions.

I leaned acrossour badly folded seaand kissed you.

Behind your shoulder,one loose cornerkept waving.