High Wind

He had a room of his own when he was a boy,
a big window onto the road, like this one.
He had a house of his own, a wife and a boy
who laughed across honey, hardwood floors.
Now, in this room, the splintered window reflects
the outline of her dream, which he has not repaired.
This made another woman
tell him she was with him only because she was sick.
She mentioned a man she knows who taught Tai Chi,
and as she spoke, her arms wove buoyant, breezy gestures.
That heals, she said.
He saw a crow today quartering a secret surf, holding ground
where there was none.
In the morning, she said, she dreamt she was cooking,
and he came to her serving hunger on a plate.
The storm windows howl from in-between,
and sitting here, he thinks, in his gut, she loves him.
But, he’d like to take her hand and tip-toe down the stairs,
through the screen door, across the gravel drive,
then walk straight up and into the high wind,
so she can hear him over her dream of him.

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