The wind is singing verbosely
through the shimmering elm,
like a girl I once loved

for an hour or two.

Lovely song,
lovely dance,
lovely sheen
against the endless draught

of sky.

Undersides of leaves,
palms bared,
straining against
our notions of grace.

(she told me, before parting,
about the fissures of desire.
I love so deeply
that I cannot fathom taking anything.
I want to leave them whole.

There was a boy she loved,
and years later, she came
across a photo a new girl
had taken. His languorous,
naked body, propped up in bed.

He sat the same way with her,
had the same lean. Always on
his left arm. I missed knowing that
piece of him, how he sat in bed.
And now it’s hers. )