I will ride your tilted horseshoe yet—
half a circle— lucky to be carried on with
upward arching hope, keeping vigil then
resting in the morning— form coming forth
from nothing —shh—the sound is pregnant
— the short hard name of a woman, cresting
with the wonder of her, curving low, breathing
joy in and out, hissing—you will spin me—
very latest thread in my tapestry of loss.