Nostalgia

Wist is wetness

and why, wind,

why. Go and gather quickly

before every shadow

has dispersed to everywhere

but beside you. God governs only

what happens while

it happens: this want

is wine of  your own making.

Loud the quieter times, and quiet

loudest still, and reach

and reach the branches that tree

beside your bedroom window,

growing to grasp you though felled

ago no less than half a decade.

How a day so dear and treasured began

with a fist in your face. Skin-to-skin.

Even the memory of that sound, somehow.