Over Cincinnati Ohio, thick velvety gray clouds quilt the sky on a late spring day.
Underneath lies a hillside lush with the resplendent bodies
of hardwoods, full as mature men and women: all tangles and
breasts and buttocks and branches heavy with foliage and shade,
unperturbed by the occasional intrusion of midwestern sunlight.
of its absence.
Believing you were really gone, the morning sunrise
through my window came as a shock. My
legs were wrapped around a feather pillow.
The air was very still—no breath.
As if it were still night.