An Open Window

Richard Foerster

Disbelief can sweep like surf
across the sill, or what the oaks
mimic: shuttled limbs, wind-woven
susurrations, which the house
breathes in, fabricating a dream

through which lovers can raft
on the ambient dark, and their minds,
relenting, settle, passive yet attentive
to the sensuous slosh of sea and air—
that’s how our bodies hovered, between

substance and seeming nothing, between
a deep that would dissolve our every cell
and a vast emptiness I sometimes think of
as God, from which I awoke, that last time
we slept together, with him yoked in my arms.