Love with its scaffold of preservation:
She waits. Not yet. He might be blind.
Are his eyes supposed to be that foggy.
He puts his chin on her knee at the dinner table
and she only mistakes it for love once.
People give up their dogs, and babies die.
All four legs are twigs but they have yet to shatter.
Her hair is spun in two bundles, disassembling at night
so that later, when she is pregnant,
she will not feel love until the human makes a shadow,
the dog spinning fur fractals beside her,
white lily petals falling into the bowels of the fruit bowl below.