घुड़सवार

the wind had blown a hairline crack in the door

I nudged my wet nose into the old wood

I recalled a long stretch of months

in which nothing had happened, but the sun

shining on my back, and I was overwhelmed

by the tide of that old contentedness

the quarter-inch of autumn air tasted of cherry tobacco

and near rainfall. I heard the glasses tremble

in the low breeze of dusk
soft as warm milk on winter’s tongue

I watched your shadow stir beside the doorsill

you had a fragile box under your arm

I wanted the earth to know that I had tried

to kiss it, that I had heard its rhythm

the creaky turquoise porch that kept you awake

my open mouth, raw like gorse

were you waiting for me?

were you waiting?

you came up from behind me, humming

you held me and shut the door real soft