A woman’s face in the wood-grain —
in the dust — of the fan-blade

above the bed.

Half asleep I see her:
shoulder-length hair,

bullet eyes, dimed mouth —
dimpleless — and think

of equestrian shows, the manicured —

mannequined — faces and lawns,
or the race track there by the river:

their hooves, the thunder
of them through the dirt,

their short-breathed beauty,

and then of you, my wife —
our search in search of searching:

the babies fast asleep,
us spooned on our sides,

the TV, muted, plays some movie

of dreams or nightmares,
and we count together

the whirls of the fan,
each breeze

the lick of another year.