Wind

When we shared a house with your sister
we slept for a time in a half-finished attic
with Visqueen stapled over insulation
and during storms the plastic would pop
and contract like a great lung. In the whale,
Jonah might have heard such sounds.
I finally screwed boards onto the rafters,
and I suppose we slept better. I remember
staring at the low front windows one night after love
while you breathed so evenly and streetlights
brightened the frozen panes of glass.
Now, we’re elsewhere, swept out by sirens
or restless leg syndrome or some
version of what moves everyone.
If it’s quiet there tonight, maybe
a wind shapes the dreams of lovers
in those rooms. For us, the wind stirs
a few maples and a tall pine that worries you
when it bends and groans during storms.
I love that dancing tree’s thousand arms,
but tonight I want to crawl back in time
to wait near windows on a haloed street
while blankets rise and fall and rise.