Poem-a-Day

We were living in a blue room, somewhere near  
the coast. The trees were tall and green as sleeping men,  
bent against the wind. There were blackberries,  
apple farms, roaring waves of storms. Long December  
foghorn nights, the distant tinny ringing of a bell.  
We watched the ships go by, the seagulls flock  
and spread. We stayed up late and read Neruda 
in the dark, returning every nerve. So close it seemed  
the other person’s body was our own. Eyes for eyes,  
hands for hands, waiting for the other one to come.  
It wasn’t beauty but a lack of time. We saw the stars  
dissolve, the shifting range of blues against the peaks.  
Mountains in the distance. Black hills. Moon. There was  
a time, a period of days and nights before the end.  
We were living in a blue room, and we were happy.