A hot afternoon with clouds
like afterthoughts. The tree outside the window
waving to say the wind was picking up when
she says something about how each breath
is cycled through the atmosphere
every seven years or so.
Then she yawns. He laughs and looks
at the clock, says he'll time it.
She says she likes the fan on
for the noise.
Tree still trying
for attention.
Her weight shifts in the middle of the night
onto an outspoken floorboard
when the thunder was still far off.
Drops, then it all broke at once.
-
Back home after work and
he interrogates the sheets
on an unmade bed with
a long stare:
Where were we?
The floor fan on, oscillating
in slow disapproval.
It's been a few years.
Maybe there are still parts of her
here, there.
He takes off his clothes, lies down.
Low thunder. He looks at the clock.
The fan clicking a bit at the end of
every turn for want
of oil after so long.
Hot, cool, hot, click.
Hot, cool, hot, click.
He closes his eyes, allows her to come
back, breath by breath. More thunder.
Hot, cool, hot, click.
Hot, cool, hot, click.
