Books and politics, the movement of the dry

Books and politics, the movement of the dry
air in the winter months. Her voice is firm
in the still of night and the coming storm
has scattered timid leaves. I wish to bury

myself in sleep, to vanish from the flurry
of life without a trace. I hold the warmth
of her body near me, appreciate its forms
and represent it. The ideals that we carry

in language have a moisture. Sun together
with Moon brings water across the canopy
of trees. I remove the mud from the leather

shoes, observe the layered clothes of gypsies
and think of an old song. The clouds gather
in the sky and seem neither sad nor happy.