It takes years to understand how thought
reached out, pulled down the blind,
folded the sheets, stacked them with lavender
in some spare cupboard.
You are not the only bereft, they say.
I do not want unused sheets, closed doors,
last year’s scented bags that smell of dust.
I do not want the husk –
I want the whole fresh loaf, I want to lean
across the table, pour all
the wine for us.
I want – I want –
and yes –
if this be selfish, I will march to hell for it.