Looking Through A Glass

Mosquitoes took suck from her ankles.
She felt the warmth of a burgeoning summer
rising from the fresh tilled earth;
from the sun-baked cedar beams beneath
the exposed soles of her feet.

"Are you yesterday?"

The moment was swollen with humidity and hope.

Candlelight caught in her wine glass, gleaming
through cheap Chablis.
She measured him.
She measured him in sips, in time, in sips
with the mind of a nervous student,
with the carnal knowledge of a lover,
with swilled wine.

She measured first with one eye, then the other, and both.
She measured him across distances
of communication,
the curvature of the glass,
across the table, and
with a widow's heart.

"Are you tomorrow?"