It was a marriage of August and dirty dishes.
A moth settled for three days on the wall behind the bed.
I brought my eyes into the room of her eyes.
I came away with black brown heather muslin dust.
I said, “Now I’m going to undress you”
and washed against a creature of air.
The ceiling spoke a trick of wood knots, changing
scripture of the slope. I wondered about a life spent alone.
For hours a violin played down the hall. I said, “Look,
a hundred black birds rising in unison.”
The mind of sadness was unified flight,
the aerodynamics of the flock in a neighboring field.
The dogs in the valley tore the silence open
for a passing fox. Her breath fasted on dream.
I came away with black brown heather muslin dust.
Shadows stole knowledge of her in their disposal of the day.