The Inn at Chico

Bozeman, 1980

for Patrice

One lone pigeon white

Under the rafters’ eve

A mistaken dove

Two beds and a sink

A braille of crocheted curtains

And wind-darned rainfall

Your olive skin is the

Moistened context

Of fleeting exteriors

Our morning laughter like

Shards of light in chiaroscuro

The Inn at Chico

Letting you

For now

I felt my throat