november 3

november 3

No stars, geese low, traveling 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 a thought,
sleepily, but you,
your lips rest, and hum another thing.
You think of birds.

The Rooftops

 

Is this how far gone I am,
that from this window,
vacant yards are small valleys, 
cold with snow on rooftops?
And where in them do I locate you,
speaking your language, made dumb here,
winter advancing out of the dullness
of the missing gulls,
highlands plunging and lustrous
as a newly slaughtered bird?