Whose thorn in a thimble is this? 
Whose backward glance? 
Whose eft in the tall grass?

For the purposes of this poem 
let’s let suppository
be a repository for supposing

Suppose I’d really wanted 
to put out
in a pickup truck that night

Suppose you hadn’t been as bored as a baroness
I suppose I could have loved you

But that was a sestina ago

Before the glaciers
and the eft
Before the thorn and the thimble

Now, drinking my smoothie I think about 
how the flax seed
is hidden
in the grain of the linen

Hidden because transformed?
Or hidden because lost? Hidden because hidden?

When I lost my mother’s wedding ring it went 
with not so much as a chime

It went quietly
like a suppository into the night

like an eft in the tall grass
like a ream undone in the wind 
like a promissory note flying up 
a pneumatic tube

Walking through the neighborhood
all of the windows of the houses
flooded with the same blue tv screen light

as though everyone were watching
the same footage of the same glacier melting

Still, I keep turning toward you

like a bolt in the hull 
of a cruise ship,

Something huge and slowgoing 
and then going fast and wide 
with a big wake

The tables have both turned 
and not turned

Something fits like a potato in a shoe