November
Naked no longer
and within arm’s reach,
our lime tree
has put on night fog.
Even in sleep
it won’t let go
its small change.
I lean out
into the sound of shore arriving,
of waves breaking against the balcony,
as they will all night:
the boulevard traffic a block away.
Wearing a little of the fog,
I come back to you in the dark;
and you reach out
in your sleep, suddenly,
like the tree remembering its finches.