While you slept I went for breakfast, your body
brown and voluptuous under the small Gauguin.
They’ve cut the young trees to knee height

along your road. I surprise a pheasant.
The deer that lay last night beneath the pine
is gone: slaughtered for venison or stumbling

among the birches. Contrary to prediction,
it rains. I drive without wipers, trusting
to luck.  A uniform stops me on 53. We both know

it’s a warning -- the rented car, my out-of-state
license -- the crow on the elm branch shakes 
itself like a wet dog. I can’t remember

if you’ve eaten camembert, but you say you’ll start
with strawberries, taste it later on my skin.
A volume of Foucault grins open

on the bedspread. I place it on the shelf
between the Bible and Gray’s Anatomy.
We have only a day to fashion our history.