To breathe in stillness when the train has passed
and birds slumber in the trees,
instills comfort. The room’ s lit by a street lamp
squinting through the shutters
while elsewhere leaf shadows
make their vineyard on the wall.
They say this house was built
from the ruins of an olive mill;
and the ground remembers its fallen fruit
but has submitted to the wild emptiness
ghosting through tall grass & broken stone.
Two stories up, I press your hand extracting
whatever chill lingers from a dream; and you go on
to rest without trembling. A sacred thing
harvested in this last hour
when darkness makes its peace with dawn;
and cobwebs seem to have caught
(letting the air skim off ) what you
can no longer remember.