We used to meet on this corner in the same wind. It fought us up the hill to your house, blew us in the door. The elevator rose on guests of stale air fed on ancient dinners. Your room smelled of roach spray and roses. In those days we went to bed with Marvell. The wind ruffled sheets and pages, spoke to us through walls. For hours I used to lie with my ear to your bare chest, listening for the sea. Now the wind is tearing the building down. The sheets are rising. They billow through the air like sails. White with your semen holding invisible prints of the people we were, the people we might have been, they said across the country disguised as clouds. Momentarily they snag on the Rocky Mountains, then rise shredded into streamers. Now they are bannering westward over California where your existence is rumored.