longing - draft

a stranger who has died comes to the door
invisible as wind
the door opens, closes, nothing

you wonder
as you turn away

who was that who scratched outside
in the night
who was that outside
and how

did he die
in wet Spring
under trumpets
or lonely as dead

trees
in a distant winter
and outside the owls all

turning their heads, outside
he shrinks back
gathering his mist about
him, moving off

along hillsides
thick with longing
.
.
.