Hearing a sound that ought to be your sleep I reach and set my heart on your left hand But find the window: winter, ankle-deep In autumn, hates the pathways of the land. But snow is slowly stepping down the tree Where morning tries to speak, but muses rain. I lie back, wondering if you also see What dreams we are begetting in my brain: Years roll along our faces and we cling To bedsheets and each other. In cold light Snow melts between our bodies. Everything You do to me stakes our claim of the night. I turn against the ceiling with your cry As if to look for kinship with the sky.