That was summer, this is winter.
In the heat of you resides cold
like a white dog barking, barking
and watching the dark blue distance.
The sea's forests wave and retreat,
the wind settles in and the birds
scatter. If one was to speak now
there might be a gray sound,
or none at all. Thinking only darkens
the whole tableau, like the shadow
of a great tablecloth.
In your palm is a pearl
and some sand; in your voice
there is something else, something
that wakes at a kiss
and winks at a sob.
At best, there is nothing left
but some leaves, dry and wrinkled,
and the gift of a gift.


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