Tuesday, September 6, 2011


Come, you are the soft wind
of September, hanging your hair
over the vineyard
while church bells echo
in the arch of your back.
Grapes glisten at your feet
and soon their blood skin
will be crushed into wine.
Your late lover rests
in the gatehouse
waiting for your hand
to press breath from his lungs,
memory from his sleep.
He lies naked, washed-over
by light and billowing drapes.
Your scent moistens the windowsill
while a small bird takes wing.
Leaves rustle, her shadow bridging
the wall’s cracked stone.

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