The Southerly is a greedy lover,
a wind that stirs the sullen trees
out there and wakes me from a shoulder
damp but growing cold as the sullen air
cuts the sultry heat in which we lay.
You are no longer here, never were,
just far away like death; and an Antarctic
wind reminds me of where I am, not there
but in the reality of a dream where I
gave and took the humidity of a kiss.
It all creaks: this house and my dry
bones brittled by the wind that always
comes after heat, gathers at the end
of day and exposes the soft soles of leaves,
has caught me this naked night unprepared.
And this arm stirred thirsty from its sleep
finds you glistening in the light of another
sun beside cross the fermenting curve
of earth circled and joined by hand at woken
groin and bathing in the sweat of a dark wind.