The wind is high tonight on the green, gust
after gust pounds the tallest branches
of the huge planes, tossing like forests
of kelp on the ocean floor.
Tiny voice in the deep night, small doll
with fish-scale eyes catching
what little light remains, keeping
their stare on me whichever way I look.
2.35am and you're here again, dressed
as the day you left, your face
pressed up against the see-through paper
door, that I get up tiredly to open.