Memory jumbles which I noticed first—
the bicycle abandoned in the grass,
discarded clothes, or sounds of splashing
in the lake.  She emerged from the weeds 

still wet, toweling dry, and must have seen me
round the path, kicking through the leaves
and morning frost, my sympathetic shiver,
though she never met my eye.  She turned 

her back but didn’t wait to peel away 
her seal-black suit and what I saw 
was ampleness and white, the beauty 
of the world in late September.

Sometimes when I think of it I stare.
Sometimes she is me and I am her.