thirty in the a.m.

It is midnight, or almost.
Out in the world the wind stretches
bundles back into itself like  a hundred
bolts of lace then stretches again

flows itself over the windowsill and into the room
it scatters the papers from the desk
it is in love with disorganization

now the manuscript is on the floor, and reshuffled
now the chapters have married each other
now the alphabet is lost
now the white curtains are tossing wing on wing
now the body of the wind snaps

it sniffs the closet it touches into the pockets of the coats
it touches shells upon the shelves
it touches the tops of books
it slides along the walls

now the lamplight wavers
as the body of the wind swings over the light
outside a million stars are burning
now the ocean calls to the wind

now the wind like water slips under the sash
into the yard the garden the long black sky

in my room after such disturbance I sit, smiling.
I pick up a pencil, I put it down, I pick it up again.
I am thinking of you.
I am always thinking of you.