When he woke and heard the wind shaking the glass his first thought was a crazy one.
He climbs over her sleeping body. Feels around in the dark until his fingers touch
denim and leather.
The bones in his toes crack like pistol shots as he goes down the stairs.
Rain in the darkness.
Wind buffeting the trees.
The sound of these things.
Rain and wind on the skin.
The smell of rain, taste of the wind.
The shape of things that can’t be seen.
Mind you, it’s still dark now. Rain pulses on the black glass. Somewhere in sleep
he pictures that day in Glastonbury. It still measures up against everything that
he’s have been part of since.
Green-leaved, black-berried ivy spreads
in white rooms where the lights are all dead.