Stray wisps of your chestnut hair lie
stranded
on the mismatched pillows, the weathered couch,
sagging bookshelves, sooty window sills--
I wonder: Is this
your cat-like way of marking territory,
claiming every inch your own,
like leaving a scent, a living bit of yourself--
or: is this
a coldblooded mechanism for parting,
escaping catastrophes greater than loving,
a reminder that we've always been
leaving, shedding appendages to save
the more pregnable parts of ourselves?
