The sheets in your windows
and trees are the linens
we slept in and dreamed.
Now they flap in the breeze
like rags. No rescue
by The Mercy enjambs
my heart. No island rhymes
with paradise. My cry
is brief but well rehearsed.
If nothing I say turns
the helm of your oneiric 
house, then the wind
that fills your sails with sorrow
is a wind that blows from the north
today and the south tomorrow.