degas-woman-at-the-window-007The loon sang out of season
and she bed her reason
wetting sheets with her angst
for who among the outside world
enfolded her as you had?
they say it takes just a moment
you can never go back
there, it was that instant
when you rested in my arms
and nothing else mattered
you asked, was it the temper of day
or mood of furnishing night
but it was neither my love
it was the weight of your head
against my rising chest
which had stood dormant and empty
for as long as I breathed stale air
comprising bone fragments dry as old tears
until you came and filled me
with your familiarity and nectar
pollinating wasteland
as if that’s what I had been searching
in my wool socks with holes in
when I squinted out of the kitchen door
unevenly framed with draft leaching in
at birds picking the blossom from peas
tracing their growth, tied in rows
much like humans let themselves become
I saw the russet fox stalk out
proud and wild
he did not require straightening or string
to mold him to his burnished lament
his paws were blackened with coal
leaving indents of darkness in twilight
mocking the sobriety of obedient eyes
cloistered behind their rule books
chalky and calcified
the fox out shone even the gloom
misting the window blue
and first light
ardent and bright
looking something like you
as you turn in sleep
toward me
like a movement of
joining emptiness