Back Lanes

Trees barely moving in morning breeze,
curtains too heavy to drift, merely
shifting back and forth. Geese dark streaks
across a grey sky. Somewhere

someone closes a door
and leaves something else behind.
They keep their hand gentle
on the doorknob and without a sound

bring it shut. Do you remember
back cobblestone lanes, brilliant
in rain? Lonely streets wandered by passers
speaking Italian. Shop windows warm

against the night. Forget it. Stand here.
Look just above the treeline.
Watch greyscale. Sunrise. Is it warm

where you are? Has the light
already changed? You are taller
than I am. Longer legs, longer
hands. Morning is quiet

without anyone’s breath
to keep time to. I open
the windows. I let in nothing.