: Curtains :

an excerpt by Chard deNoird


The sheets in your windows

and trees are the linen

we slept in and dreamed.

Now they luff in the breeze

like rags. No rescue

by The Mercy enjambs

my heart. No island rhymes

with paradise. My cry

is brief but well rehearsed.

If nothing I say turns

the helm of your oneiric

house, then the wind

that fills your sails with sorrow

is a wind that blows from the north

today and the south tomorrow.