Here beneath the hemsof evergreen, besidethe weathered shedwhere sunlight doesn’t reach,the housewife squintsand takes it all inuntil she sees himstanding near the brokenbones of railroad track,smoking, staring back.Last week she searchedeach morning afterdropping off the kids.When he didn’t appearin her rearview mirror,or rise from the coldexhaust of somedelivery truck,she began to leaveher bedroom windowopen through the night,to leave the doorunlatched, to makewinding tracks throughthe woods, dropping giftsof homemade bread,spit-shined apples, a splitof wine uncorkedon the back porch.One day she undressesand leaves her clothesin a pile besidethe snow, dancesnaked beneath the pineboughs, gathers brush and twigsto build a hut arounda bed of rags and straw,burns dried lavenderand roses in a tinbucket by the door.The tracks she findsare just her husband’staking out the trash.In dreams he comes.She fixes the brokensplit-rail fence, sets a trapto keep him in.