Bed-stun in a blur, I felt a rib-poke from the sheets.
And though I never saw your return, I held it by shadow.
Through day-leaking blinds, and saw this hairpin.
And while you pace rush-hour – I lie here,
its small crinkly jaw in hand,
And long-blink back into a morning dream.
Of your lips, and folded hands
That twitched while you slept.
Of the history of cookies,
Or little jumping foxes on the Alaskan plain
Left playing on TV.
Upon fully waking, this hairpin goes to my reserve
in the bookshelf. And roads may turn sharply,
but are ever-fixed by their hairpins.