Last night, as I was washing the dishes,
I thought of you as corn-silk, filaments
of your hair, perfect floss, a nimbus
sheathing you, and then I thought that if
I really saw that silk, scintillant
as a silver beech rising in sunlight,
and could almost fluff it in my fingers
as if for one time only, then the ear
of corn might already be cut, might be
already shucked, and soon, maybe, the stalk
itself downed, and then I did not want
to finish cleaning up the dishes
anymore, lest I lose sight of your silk
fading out behind the shine and chill
of the dried plate heavy in my hand.