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The Southerly

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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.

 

Published:  Quadrant