A leaf falls
Into the monsoon shadows.
I turn by the grazed branches
Trembling by the dark windows
Into the blustering
Of frost and the muzzled crystals that lay
Into the black linen on the ground.
We are alone in the patters of wind,
Hear; each turn of the rock,
And see our hands
Restless into the dark tides
Beyond the heart of a foggy isthmus,
As the light carves into the ice east.
In the memory, a mottled alyssum,
A breath ahead shared,
We were not alone then,
But now we hear the thrush
Into the beginning of winter
Continuously gone into April
Like a ghost street.
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