The Breeze Is Nothing

Last night
I decided to leave this room

with its scent of flowers and light
and I guess

because I couldn’t sleep I want you
to understand

I could have driven the car
until it dawned

I could take one step at a time
on the walk to the waves

on the beach children play. Sand
glistens during the day. The night

is a shadow. There is nothing
but for you I confess

I thought it was the Holy Ghost.
It could be a rumour.

It could be the truth
I’ll be buried under the weight

of my lies.
It should come as no surprise the living

are no different
than the dead although the dead

can’t listen to innuendo and I can’t
pretend I saw flowers or the light

when the breeze is nothing
but the lightest touch I can’t

feel anymore. And I can’t
find a reason to talk


Away from the town and down by the lake,

in between breaks, those times
you’d decide not to paint and I’d decide
not to write, we’d pretend to argue
in the kitchen as if re-living a familiar scene

you said like husband and wife and I wonder
if at night we’d be like trees, trees silent
in a pact with each other or silent only in sleep.
What then, of the way we talk, the way

we explore, the sighs and milky moans
from my open throat. I’d like to say I adore
your memory of a silky heartfelt deep kiss.
And trees sparkle as if in firelight.

Does longing have a glow?
Please, I really want to know.

(Note:-‘trees silent in a pact with each other’
from “Nocturne” by Tomas Transtromer)

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