She steps from behind a tombstone,
is delicately there,
as though shaped from those sad poems
about dead deer.
or simply to stop trembling
and accept the caress
of the way I keep my distance,
muffle the trespass
of even a sudden look.
She watches me sideways,
I ogle a Celtic cross
for as long as it takes to be counted incidental
then not to count. At last I can watch her pass
unscared into the morning, so tuned to place she
is its sole movement. How soft must be the air
in her fine nostrils. How sweet the cemetery grass.