Around Nine

Last night, as I was washing the dishes,
I thought of you as corn-silk, filaments 
of your hair, perfect floss, a nimbus 
sheathing you, and then I thought that if 
I really saw that silk, scintillant 
as a silver beech rising in sunlight, 
and could almost fluff it in my fingers 
as if for one time only, then the ear 
of corn might already be cut, might be 
already shucked, and soon, maybe, the stalk 
itself downed, and then I did not want 
to finish cleaning up the dishes 
anymore, lest I lose sight of your silk 
fading out behind the shine and chill
of the dried plate heavy in my hand.