The hectic wind came in from the north.
Though we never spoke of it,
we knew it meant collision:
geese against blue, bone
against winter. We’d become the lies
that built a false house, quickened
by guiles that shored up the fiction.
As long as paragraphs were tidy,
we moved on to the following day.
But when the weather crept under doors
and into our marrow, time was up.
So we backed away in spiraled silence
as if we’d always been unbelievers,
as if we’d never found the angle of repose.