The Verdict

I face the windowed wall
twisted in a dark blue armchair
(its velvet rubbed to linen
where heads lay
and coffee mugs rest)
so that elbows touch ankles
and toes meet fingers.

Grey leggings coat my lower limbs,
emerging from your red knit sweater
whose arms envelop mine.
My worn-out knuckles are lost inside the cuffs.

I watch the sky and ask it what to write.
The birds are middlemen, reporting
my anthologies' titles to the clouds --
evidence offered while they determine
what more I have to express.

A door opens, closes.
Footsteps grow more pronounced behind me.
You kiss my ear.
The clouds are silent.
The rain is not.