As in rhythm
with the woodpecker’s thud
on the wet
trunk
the tree at
both our gate
and the road

I think of
my positioning

What could only
be considered away
is here

I move my neck
and the tip
of a hook
again
pierces the wood
it penetrates
on it’s opposite
end

I at once
realise
I do not miss home

I can only
think to miss you
Person
I do not know

And the limits

So contagious
and lush
with comfort