this late evening departure
meets with greetings from a dense fog.
she shows me the unseen detail of light
and gives my heart that tickle I like,
warming him up oddly with chills and wonder
then yearning and nostalgia might follow,
or the near bursting of the poor organ.
and she wafts about,
or lays lazily there just beyond my touch.
the wind from my hand
might be enough to unveil forms;
a cloud or a puddle
giving the suburban house some undeserved romance
or revealing what they’d wish to be.
sly fox, brave woman, mad man, I’d
pull you in my window with a fan if you’d abide;
I’ll settle for the damp dark moss
of a smell you dress yourself in.