Clouds in ginger
crowd the skin
& months grow out
while I become
an eschewing hermit
who rerolls nights.
Over in your
farther morning,
flight TK 1977
is sleeking to Dublin
on the same
bronzy sun that
sings in brick.

I've felt far
from you, lately -
distance deepens
in the swaying spaces
between your words.
Splitting goodnights
with a lonely axe,
I let my mind
run away with me.
Please, be here soon -
the moon is but
a sobbing blotch,
& the grass is dying
in its bed.