He rumples through my skirt, the wind, throws up my hair
like an almond flare, slings my sash about my neck.

My eyes he stings, and with a huff opens my blouse like an umbrella.

It is summer, and he is breezy, polite but somewhat needy, hushed
with warmth, slipping
into my apartment through the windows
I cannot close, carrying bundles of the night with him.

He wears the cologne of the August leaves, dry grass and
charcoal, the musk of crows

that are all over the cemetery across the street. They have been molting
with quiet cawing, wondering when next the rain will come.

I too miss her, the rain. I have dreams of my bed, cracked and arid,
the sheets shadowed dunes, my hands sinking into the sand before I wake
caked in sweat, the dogdays still groaning on.

Then the wind. Then the light whisper of a gasp from him.

The hanging pashminas folding in the air, glossy flags waving their hips
in dancing, and I open my lips, and feel his cool kiss

in the roof of my mouth, a tincture of crisp vodka, making my teeth
hum; though, in the colder months, I might hate him,
I thank the walls of my room
for the wind.