BY P. J. WILLIAMS
Wet lace-light on the window
retracts into morning as if
a crumpling prayer: Closer yet
I approach you, / What thought you have
of me now, / I had as much of you –
A rocking chair pendulums,
soaked, in the soft breeze.
However sure I was – am gone,
now hum low a low hymn, lift breath
from the loam, fill it with speech.
Let your own lilting break
the horses that saddle the rain.