Davenport Gap Canticle
Turning over in last night's breeze
in Covington, ficus tree leaves,
a curtain panel, car engine,
I turned over in my sleep
back to where you lay one night
during our courtship
on the chicken wire bunk
at a shelter off the Appalachian Trail.
A deer outside snorted.
Grass stretched and snapped its way
into the deer. Night
had erased all the chain link
between us and night;
night had hidden all the fabric
and each of the faces
between where you lay breathing
Going to bed
at night in Lee County
you're never for sure
if the whippoorwill you're hearing
is in your mind
or one ridge over.