There are things between them that are things
on their minds—somewhere a beach, somewhere
a frozen pond. There are things they say,
they say to themselves things they don’t say,
there where the folded things are between
them, where there are things in the folds they’ve
put out of mind, things that have their own
lives there, groceries and lovers, sleep,
work, and lots nonetheless of wondering
why what occupies them occupies,
what else there might be past the fold where
there is only knowing things unknown,
where the gods that make are wooly mad,
they say, to give to take, to tick time
so, to wake us only when it’s gone.