november 3

No stars, geese low, travelling south.

You feel that your body in darkness
Is another life.
It rubs lightly past the faint window
Of your room, an image,
Still,
Skimming water between morning and
The southerly transmigration of dreams.
Closing the glass, it whistles something,
Sleepily. But you,
Your lips rest, and hum something else.
You think of birds.