Raging dry wind slams the door
startling as a gunshot

waking me
to the old arguments

and longings. The bronzed bed
I was dreaming entwined

with a fruit-laden vine
recedes, and I’m back here

where the marriage is dead
and the wind rasps parched junipers,

rattles the blinds.
Oh, for some moisture.

I rise, go out and try
to walk my turmoil away,

almost reach the street
that never sleeps

when the fox appears,
I first mistake for a cat,

before it tilts its head my way
and trots across my path.

My hair is lifted by a breeze
with a faint scent of rain.