Sitting dizzy with sun, watching you:
why do the stray wisps of hair remind me
of summers in the hills of home,
searching for mice under logs buried
in summer grass yellow as your hair
and also blowing in the wind? (A yellow
not clear like your tan
but dappled as a field of various grasses
whose real names I never knew: foxtail,
wild-oat, rivergrass.) And why do I
watch you, distracted from a delicate theorem
of topology, no space
between summers ten years gone
and now? No proof
your wonderful stretch
is meant for me, no proof for you
my wandering eyes fix the curves
of your body and not of some distant conjunction
of functions and fields. And we are
so aware of each other, of the wind
turning my pages, your hair.

                                                      20 June 63