Always there are afternoons,The empty days, and scalyLayers of intimateFootprints, deepEnough to step into—And the hidden meadowHigh above the skylineUnder the spent treesLike the opening of aSpirit, half in, halfOut, of the clouds,Smoke ring orKismet, or a first kiss.The old trail of leaves—hundredsOf miles—like scars, backDown to the heavy door,Cannot be seen in thisDark, when, usually, orSurely, a swellingRain falls over the house.And, now, here isOne old couple—They have removedTheir yellowLayers of clothing—Her scarf, then blouse—So as to rest throughThe night in the smallBed, with sore feet,Bare shoulders—and weAll can feel, I like to think, aTingle, a wisp,Or fever, foreverMarked as love, mouthedAs birdsong. Now, hoursOf sleeping with mouthsOpen, when, under the covers,The acetate-thin skin of herForefinger grazes his,The out-of-the-rainWindow open, aBreeze, like a blessing,To nothing. There areBlue brushstrokesIn the oil painting above thePillows. What looks likeTrees have darkenedInto cathedrals. Is it theEdge of stillnessOr the rivulets of twigs,White as grace—orRegarded as graceOr unwashed as grace—When something likeThe departure of soulsFlutters out of you now,Even in winter, soThat to yearn, shouldWe yearn, like childrenYearn, for open skies?The thought of it is,Like persuasion, or thePassage of light,A thin layer of whiteOver white over white.