I breathe in as you exhale. The sun butters
the window pane. Across the field the starlings
settle in a perfect square fallen fallow. Dry earth
needs rain and storm clouds choke behind
the western horizon. Your clock ticks, tracing
a perfect semi-circle with a quiet hand. No one
will see this but me, I feel small under the weight
of it, unequal to the measure of these days.
Keep my appointments, then tell me again how you feel.
From Chroma No 2 (Spring 2005)