watch you lean over the loft railing,
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a pale statue in the dark, tall listener
who waits for the second coming of sound.
Whatever startled you from sleep, shaped
fear as this supple thinker, does not
make my breath burn rapidly. It rather
lights the wick softly
letting awe heat the cold silence.
Pants and tee shirt echoing
shades of white, clam-shell blue --
cast you shining like Lladro
in the half-light. Perhaps, you heard
wind thumping the patio tarp
and surmised a thief. But seconds later,
you may have thought it was God
snapping his fingers against the moon.
A taut drum He uses to test
our awareness of change
in seasonal time and all the hours
we have lain together –
closer now, hands latching
the intimate shadow of trust.