In the tinkling
thinking of
the wind chimes
I hear a song
that places me
before you again,
on my knees, a
knave. In the
thinking reflection
of the window,
steamed with my
own breath, I
write your name.
It’s not your
name anymore;
I have vanished from
the window. I
am sunk into
the afternoon, like
a man who
sits too long, a man
who wants to hear
singing in wind
and to see your face in
the erasures he’s used
to manage what is gone.