It appears The Feral Poet has a softer side than the one he usually shows.

Turning Over

There was a sound
the wind made
through the blinds
in the dark,
that in the plane
between the worlds
seemed closer
than the window;
beside me
the sound
you made turning

in the place
you occupied
all those years.
And when I heard it
I was not so

independent.

* * *

A Laundromat in Mt. Kisco

He watches her 
reading in a chair
by the window, intense,
absorbed and distant;
a book whose title
he cannot see.  It is late
afternoon and strange
for her to be this still
this close to dinner,
but there is something
about the coldness of the air,
about the sharpness of the leaves
in the low-angled light, the
monumental solitude,
that makes this the place to be

for now.  Outside,
three birds with burning breasts
descend to a wire.

Nor can he move, leaning
in a doorway, stilled
by this simplest of moments,
his hands forgotten, misplaced
somewhere in air
between tasks.
for he is seeing her
in another time, against
another window, another winter,
clothes chasing round in the dryer
like otters, a first snow wet
on the lettered glass and in
the empty street,
between dreams
when they were very young.

* * *