She sends me bisected images from Texas,
bright windows, sunsets – reflected, binarily so.
I touch her book, let it touch me,
and remember her leaving
like the others left, and are still leaving.
The plants outside are growing leaves,
new tender things, bright
against last summer’s dull, dark green.
Seeing them, I creak open,
and new blood bleeds
against yesterday’s crusted, immobile seam.
He confesses dark thoughts to me,
the ones no decent person would tell anybody.
Indecent as I am, I tilt to them willingly,
each word an oily drop of rain, unguent, absolvent,
against the panes, of my windows and my house.