It Must Have Been the Wind

it must have been the wind
or maybe the click of spring that pushed me
back into those nights, your name
perched on my lips: a moment of you
with me.

bless the house painters, triangles in the
sun, putting a singe to the invisible seconds.
the paint comes down, long ropes of pearls, thin
in the snap of the wind, mostly a common
whirl, but today made into a kind of defiance.

you should know this: time fluctuates.
sometimes we are closer in time, like when the
morning darkens down into wool, scratchy across
eyes used to silk, pulled back by the weight
of the dead, the only ones immured against
these fluctuations of convenience, of light, of more light.

so the morning should be here now.

i glimpsed the sun once as it clawed its way through
my window, shattered, rays scattering
everywhere. caressed, exposed, both.
i closed my eyes - object permanence surrendered
to the myth of us.

now, the sun is late, heading away,
bouncing like a handful of flung pennies.
i remember all that there isn't - my hand, reaching
out to grab the fire, left somewhere behind me.