At the Window

A Buddha moon bellies upon the clouds And with the staccato echo of heels on concrete I hurry to my window, for it was the sound of when once you came home In that time when I knew love by your name. The street below, patterned in the circles of street lamps With glistening puddles from the afternoon rain Speaks of emptiness except for one figure Walking slowly, face down, hands shoved into raincoat pockets Frantically I lift the stubborn window and call, “Annette!” She pauses, marvelously captured in light and shadow And lifts her eyes to my face and smiles It is not you. It never is. But she smiles as if knowing My thoughts and torments. She smiles and shrugs And walks on but with paces telling that she is like me And has nowhere to go except into yesterdays When all the wonders were born that now Slowly die within us, for nothing is as cold as sorrow. And I retreat into myself and pen the false idols of words As if syllables were serums and hyphens were hope