Orbs of air, like weightless quicksilver, slide from my nose as I roll to my back.
And now I see where you had been standing, that air blessed with the fragrance of your sweat...
I wait here, listening to the words here and there that flutter out through the screened windows...
... of course, when you’re standing naked by the fire, there is no real space for words.
I see the man shooting: dark jeans, white sneakers, and bald as a baby, swinging the pistol wildly, hoping for luck or God to direct his slugs.
How can I explain that he’s been the same person over the course of forty or more years’ worth of TV shows...
Leaves 