Always there are afternoons,
The empty days, and scaly
Layers of intimate
Footprints, deep
Enough to step into—
And the hidden meadow
High above the skyline
Under the spent trees
Like the opening of a
Spirit, half in, half
Out, of the clouds,
Smoke ring or
Kismet, or a first kiss.
The old trail of leaves—hundreds
Of miles—like scars, back
Down to the heavy door,
Cannot be seen in this
Dark, when, usually, or
Surely, a swelling
Rain falls over the house.
And, now, here is
One old couple—
They have removed
Their yellow
Layers of clothing—
Her scarf, then blouse—
So as to rest through
The night in the small
Bed, with sore feet,
Bare shoulders—and we
All can feel, I like to think, a
Tingle, a wisp,
Or fever, forever
Marked as love, mouthed
As birdsong. Now, hours
Of sleeping with mouths
Open, when, under the covers,
The acetate-thin skin of her
Forefinger grazes his,
The out-of-the-rain
Window open, a
Breeze, like a blessing,
To nothing. There are
Blue brushstrokes
In the oil painting above the
Pillows. What looks like
Trees have darkened
Into cathedrals. Is it the
Edge of stillness
Or the rivulets of twigs,
White as grace—or
Regarded as grace
Or unwashed as grace—
When something like
The departure of souls
Flutters out of you now,
Even in winter, so
That to yearn, should
We yearn, like children
Yearn, for open skies?
The thought of it is,
Like persuasion, or the
Passage of light,
A thin layer of white
Over white over white.
