i have yet to fall back
from my unrelenting loneliness
into a bed of hydrangea
a scent that stirs of then in sea winds
as i read the newspaper at the table
i dream of rain and hands only, in solitude
all things tend to speak a dialect of wind
a symphony of alternate stagnation, rushing
he knows not that which is the wind can be him
there is satisfaction in the tufts of a shared blanket
in extraordinary stillness of the nights of shared blankets
the void does not consume that which it occupies
i can almost smell the bay winds of then, skin,
being absorbed in warmth, comfort, fullness of heart
swept up in the winds against the window, breathing,
almost rhythmically engaged like hands holding in rain.