Thin gauze curtains move in the window. Mist
on the harbour stirred by a heron’s wings.
The wind in the night splashed the sea
on the rocks. The taste of salt on your spine.
Purple asters dot the end of September.
Light bruises on my neck from your teeth.
There’s hours and days between seeing you.
There’s a patch of sky seems empty of stars.
I will walk by the harbour tonight, listen to
the sound of waves on stone, turn my face
to the water and taste you on the wind.