Like Two Figures Who've Forgotten Where They Are

I have flashes now: a lime light, and a tree
beneath it; a ground upon which lies a dry leaf
like a sailboat, upside-down, or like a leaf
or flower folded into a ship upon a pond. You know
these vessels we make as a child, blowing
at its anchor as if from behind
a waft comes, coming slowly, and everywhere
beside the sound of insects' gossamer wings
brush the air. Yes, the leave like that, but
it's also a leave of the same dry texture
as, say, terracotta clay,that same untraceable
pattern our fingers, each of our two fingers,
touch now and now,like two figures who've forgot
where they are.