The quilt, thrown back the way it is, allows

the warmth of sheets still moist with sweat to rise

and fade, and cool the heat your scents arouse.

Against the longing, I have to close my eyes.

You stand, I know, at the window where you’ve stood

before and watched the winter sun you dread

forsake the day much sooner than it should.

Against the wanting, you slowly bow your head.

Beyond the pane, a mist embalms the trees

in shrouds of ice and, as the storm lurks near

the house, the sodden sheets of raindrops freeze

against the glass, too cold to run as tears.

………I can endure the death of dreams no more:

………I wake, and turn my face toward the door.