The Wind of Your Leave

I am losing you,

while your hands going through my hair

the way innumerable wisps of wind

break the surface of the Erie lake,

become its wrinkles, and then disappear, 

making it complete again.

Last high wind day, the lake lost its blue,

sands and stones springing out of the deep restless lakebed, 

like yellow blood exploding in my vessels,

deriving from the river we cycled along once.

Now I put on the blouse l wore that day,

held by your breath, with all my organs

drifting apart against this intact covering,

the only hug you left on me.

The gradual, actual leaving of you —

Beads blown slowly by the gale,

floating away from my sole fountain,

at this very moment, the running mist,

immersing in the burning hydrangea

on this pink windy morning.