with a little more touch and seeing
we might just survive this winter;
some kisses given and others
not; snow white reproaches of

my silence. yet the wind, the wind
veers well through your forest
of hair, through that unripe,
unready beach shack

where we danced and drank wine
till the mornings, befriending
lonely fishermen casting their
lights out into the sea.

never do we precede our fate,
always we bungle another tongue,
so abandoned. so forgotten by the sun.
always you bring me espresso

in the morning
dark and yearning.