Alone, which has grown to mean without you,
I sweat in our old bed. In the bay, the storm’s orchestra tunes.
Thunder, and my next expression is one of yours.
As if in need of something lost, wind tears
through the garden. It checks all my blooms. Rain
falls in curtains from the roof of the porch, a thin
gap where arms could part them, hems of clattering hail.
Foghorns tunnel through salty haze, the full-
of-vapor sound of a vanished horizon, roaming and slow.
Like a conductor’s elbows, the wings of a crow
rise tip to tip and hover in the naked readiness that spreads
from the sea, through swirling reeds, to the bed
where I ache and roll. The lilac light falls suddenly dim.
Blinking through sweat, I imagine: you’ve just left and will come
back for me soon, a bouquet of ice in your arms.