she is standing at the door, waiting.
there is snow powdering down and filling his bootprints;
it has been a long time.
she puts her hands against her thighs, under
her skirts. she watches the silent great sway
of the earth. the sun is
a single yellow breast,
pressed hot against the sky.
she puts her back
to the doorknob, the silver ball of it
digging into her skin,
through her dress.
the last pavilion 