I watched rain from a sleeping
porch, fall leaves wet and bright --
everything moves, everything turns.
I long for the scent of your clothes. I want
you back here now. Inside the white sheets,
the dry warm bed, everything unravels.
Dull green Thursday. The burn of pain.
I called from the roof of the Hotel Paix
two weeks ago. You said come home,
there are things to say.
