Ghost Going West

On Sherbrooke West

A palm of wind ushers in

the blank wall’s call for an omen.

Traffic’s exhaust huffs

past my knees. Evening

is a lone crow going east.

I remember morning’s

silk of pinks, the dotted

power lines and how if we sat

long enough together

we’d find some time and get

around to facing up

to saying what we meant

to each other. Hot air bulges

from the dryer vent, its bluster

going clear. It’s so cold

breath is a ghost going west— 

and I can hear you,

                       high in the black

veins of winter trees crackling 
across dusk’s last blue.