Winter Sun

Such religiosity coupled with vanity—to love you hiking

mudslides, forever fleeing asylums. Your touch is incense

and mist, even myth and fable. I cried over lights, as

bulbs popped, early in a life, failing structure—my soul.

But a candle—your mind, carried waterfalls, while fire

shimmered within an ocean. Now a pulse aches, while

nestling foreign love, and imported wine, aloof to sobriety.

You stand a giant in a crowd, intuitively versed, adept at

the latest fashions. I sing a stream to better days,

frowning for our disappearance; but touch us not, oh

Howling Wind, for we’ve opted for distance, nearly

wheezing, gripping both scarf and couch, ever to cough up

a lung.

In truth, our months were young, wailing in a

suitcase, packing and repacking, afraid to love a second

ghost. Now our essence, ever cleaving, trespassing

vineyards, sorely tethered, hushing a twilight zone.