There is no one else here,

no face at the window,

nor electric hum of ghosts.

The trees outside are only trees,

the flowers on the sill

have no particular names.

I turn a dome of silence

over in my hands,

waiting for annunciation,

a collision of wing and claw

to rouse me from this calm.

Outside, hard frost has fallen

from the mouth of the moon,

collecting on the junipers,

pooling on the lawn. What

I wouldn't give for just one

more taste of your terrible

and exquisite tongue.