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September's Wind
by Deborah Russell

We dream in anthologies,
awake in brief moments,
from a dark, deep sleep
to compose transliterations
in chapters and verse.

In the middle of a sentence
the world vanishes
as your body appears...

This morning's coffee
grows tepid.

September's wind is cool
poems scattered
in the ethernet
are suddenly collected.

I write a river of blue
that flows warm, beneath
your fingers and we read
the poems
of Takamura -
pages of insomnia that
define lips,
slightly parted,
with the moist syllables
of word invention.

We count the sounds
of shells gathered
from the shores
of our childhood and
arrange them
in a timeless sequence.

This is how,
through love alone,
we are wireless and
connected.

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