You danced on the patio, bending to shadows
sprawled on the lawn by apple trees
gleaming gold in the New England dusk.
The second movement of The New World
Symphony coaxed Duncanesque grace
from your strong legs, and I watched
your lover watch you. Her sadness
covered the orchard like fallen red leaves,
and I had to turn away from my own joy.
The next morning, I strolled down
the deserted Massachusetts highway
and, without benefit of map or directions,
crossed the invisible line into New Hampshire,
not knowing whether I could ever go back.