You look lost, a stitched-woman, voiding the wind in your hair.  
Like face-free-eyes lighting a temple in their reflection
you glare knotted in fall-spokes dreaming of winter.
-Tea is steaming from your glass -
God has turned left-hand memories into ports beneath skin
filling in the dreams of your frozen hair, like veins.  
A gold-oil spills from your lips as you breathe  
in my mouth - Your glass still steaming -

When you come back: Will lay me in your reflection and listen
for the sound of my hair in your hands?