The specter pivots
in the straight-jacket of an untempered wind.
My fingers trace the back of another hand
in half wakefullness;
the silence has grown a body
to lie beside me
in all of its moldy breath
as the house begins to breathe
from its fissures.
The leaves in the garden are a thousand pleading hands
running across the hem of some archangel's gown.
Street lights plunge from their posts
onto the asphalt.
I will remember tomorrow
as if it were a dream,
yet the ground will spill with it,
as if death entangled itself with life
in the confusion of a wind,
and I lie half submerged
between an eternity