On the Coldest Nights

Your dreamlit face reaches
across two towns
     a porcelain moon
rising slowly, washing
over my dreams.

Near my window near my ear
between dreams
     between storms
I hear the weather
          and listen:
The round myrtle tree
ripples on the wind
        ripples
like beach grass;
swollen eaves, lapping over,
spill down hard rhythms
          and I listen.

On this night
the coldest of all,
sleep nowhere near,
I stare at the fierce dark
across two towns
and listen for your
          far breath.