So for you there's this again, these birds absurdly singing, that cover the sough of night. Already, hours ago, they've ridden hard to the east but failed to spear with beaks the sound of their own singing, and returned. Now you appear in the morning and go out for mail. Neither of us speaks. We pull the walls down close around us.
Guilt expires, even as air congeals away from the mouths of the jets.
You are there, above, behind the glass. With fishnet stockings and a dress of green sequins. I see you, the stairs are too slow. We walk among cypress, those knobbed, hollow roots, by the edge of water and much else. Tonight, thoughts will flare and subside in the hearts of oak logs.