Weather Channel

Your back turned, a broken compass
vibrating faulty,
stays shadowed despite
the moonlight-in-the-window.

The ghosts living between
our clothes, the dinner talks
of porch lights.
The apple-picking of
forgotten thought,
and allotted time for
touching fingers.
I keep my front to your back,
my knees closed, jointly pointing.

The rain stays south,
but not forever. Find
west-bound with your compass.
Walk there gently,
new figure in the window.
I will never hurt again.