Still vast, lung-wet, I lie there, awhile,
Trickling out of the tiny cracks in my wrists.
I waken slowly, cold as the sea and remember.
Days I drove home weeping for nothing
I could name but the bruised afternoons coming down
Or your wet hair in the evenings, pearls of perspiration
Beading your ears, the nape of your neck.
Dark hallway and a bed at the back
And a night wind blowing rain sideways
Sounding like tacks flung against the windows.
And we, there, rising and falling
With those birds in the wallpaper trees.
–D. James Smith