Its arms still around her, this dirt
clings between what's left behind
and the rain --its stones stare back

can't make out the fingers nearby
easily yours and with each handful
something that is not her forehead

just the over and over nearness
you pull closer and with your mouth
welcomes this dirt, covers it

the way any helpless wound is kept moist
and on her cheeks, something later
no longer remembers, barely dry.