Thursday

You are in the sky above Africa and I

keep looking out of the window, watching

October spin leaves like the hands of clocks.

Everything shifts so quickly sometimes. Last

week I was counting dead hours. Now I

am thrilled by splashes of blue spilling

the sun through everything, drawing a thread

between here and where I imagine you

are now. I think that, if I tilt my head

at the right angle, we might be looking,

somehow, at the exact same patch of sky,

that we might make two legs of a compass,

a wishbone, two leaves, the lid of a box,

the metal and acid of an etching.

A bird crests the rushing wind; hangs, calls, slides.