I’m not sure if was the tick of the fan,
Making the sound of a rattler
Next to my bed, or my own voice
Hovering over my body, euphoric and listening
To what had to be said. Are you there?
It’s midnight and I’m awake,
Leafing through the books of poetry I left
Out for you. I find the ribbons
That wrapped around 1936,
A book of Victorian poetry
I gave you only a week ago. And, so, I wait
On the deck outside with a fervent solitude
Oblivious to an end or beginning,
Only knowing of the moon, and how
It has shifted its weight across the sky.
