forgetting pills and running back to the house, finally on the train, a flash to that other May, my hair always just washed, Chloe on my wrists and behind my knees, your favorite blue lace panties. Today time seems botched. It couldn’t have been so many years since I slept against your back, as many years ago as your son was old, long enough for me to have a daughter with eyes as blue, to haunt me. Maybe the green reminded me, a wall of it like the trees I drove through, that moist avalanche of black emerald and jade. Or maybe the tea rose leaking on my skirt made me think of long hot hazy hours in your kitchen, in different rooms, moving toward your mouth. Or the low pressure, like when the electricity went out and I wanted the dark to trap us, torn trees to block the door. The elastic is still good in those lace panties, and my hair is growing longer, as if it were a flag I could wave to let you know I’m in town, as if you were living and I were coming to you, still high from a dance class where when I stretched and warmed up it was as if for you.