The brackish wind beats at the blinds like a vatic cudgel counting down the last of the day.
On the final strike the night comes vaulting over the village,
bursting with a thick dye to hood the sky,
an eyelid closing over an eye,
my hands feeling expectant,
opening as if to receive something.
My heart comes fast over the ridge like a drunk taxi.
You're already a quarter of an hour later than your morning promise.
I am as silent as the chicken roasting in the oven,
all trussed up with string and clogged and bogged with heavy stuffing.
For their proximity in my imagination,
your features are indistinguishable from how they fit into mine.
For a black moment I doubt your return...
but the port calls to you like to all the other ships.
The walls thin, I can hear you swing the latch;
I can hear your heal catch the uneven brick;
I can hear your feet court the hackle of our welcome mat.
You are here, and the day falls from me like mature fruit.