After Work

The shack and a few trees

float in the blowing fog 

I pull out your blouse, 

warm my cold hands 

 on your breasts. 

you laugh and shudder 

peeling garlic by the 

 hot iron stove. bring in the axe, the rake, 

the wood 

we'll lean on the wall 

against each other 

stew simmering on the fire 

as it grows dark

 drinking wine.