It’s a gale-ridden day.
We’ve rowed till the whitewashed walls turned black
but found a way back
to you, to me.
I raise myself slightly so sweaty skin
rustlingly slides off skin
and nestle my heart close to yours:
an earthenware plate tipping over another.
The window is open: May is blue.
In the beam above us death advances
the thousandth part of an inch, with a snap.
But the rosefinch on the naked branch
sings and sings away.
The down on its breast fluffs in the wind.
So much greater its song is
than its quavering body!