Her work hangs where I open my door.
When I come home, it is what I come home to.
Her gray pencil of the snowy moor
sleeps on a nail in downtown San Pedro
thickly adnate with the eggshell wall.
I see the work and see her mouth at once,
her teeth an illuminated Heimdall,
her smile the sun bridging the frosted months.
In San Pedro it never snows, except
right here on my wall. And I imagine
making footprints in it on my inept
search for better thanks than were given.
