I lay in bed and listened to the wind that stove

The branch apart from barrel trunk. The old house shook

And heaved into the wind the way that once

I thought that I would heave against myself.

The house is large and full of ghosts tonight.

I like the way the curtain catches on my face and strokes

My neck. I used to think that we would be large, together,

And that each would fill the other’s empty places,

Would touch and tease the ghosts our lives

Could not contain. We would have clove together in just

the way the wind moaned in and through the dusty house,

And swept our cobwebs up and out to God.