THE SKY OPENS

I inherited an unnumbered house

with several ruined nests

and cracks in the walls like the veins

of a lover aroused.

It is here the wind sleeps

and the words of condensed

absences. It’s summer

and there’s a scent of trampled thyme.

The monks finish telling their beads,

the sky opens to create a current of air

in our souls.

The trees are green, we are invisible,

and only thus can they be seen:

our unborn children and the night

which makes the angels

purer still.