It feels as if you’re calling from among moths
or perhaps that stirring is the sound
of wire hangers clanging
when the door opens, or the rough surf
worlds away rejoicing that it’s morning.
Your longhand returns like fountains,
your words the coins thrown in
for the simple sake of here goes.
My dear, there are so many places
and people whose artifice
we can’t escape, but from the tip
of an island since pulled away, this wind
comes to us unguarded, unadorned,
and the snow pulls its soft
garlands down upon us.