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.