JackIn my 57th year there was Jackgrey curls, leggy and long,scratchy-chinnedand warm as Augustfrom head to thigh."You're the best thingand the worst thingthat ever happened to me,"he whispered into the nightgiving love in parentheses,and I fit just under his arm."We should have metwhen we were young,"he said, my hands tracingthe broad spring of his chest."This is going to be hard."Air dry as cotton.Heart, too heavy to fly.