The rain drips
And it is
The sound of waking—
A blanket bunched around her knees,
And the shape of her husband
In the cold, like a stone of an island,
A harbor in which she anchors. 

The wind blows
And it is
The sound of sleeping— 
A sliver shone through his eyelids,
And the shapelessness of hope
In the cold, like the tides that crush
An island’s igneous stone. 

She whispers hard
And it is
The sound of sediments
That shift and settle through his thoughts
And the shape of devotion,
With its cold purpose, as he culls
Elements from sanguine shores.

And it may be
No more than fantasy, 
But even as he slumbers, he probes
Apocrypha to bring forth gold,
Never waking to their life
As it is.

Les Kay holds a PhD from the University of Cincinnati's Creative Writing program. His first chapbook, The Bureau, is forthcoming from Sundress Publications in 2015. His poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in a variety of literary journals including The McNeese Review, RedactionsCider Press Review, Superstition Review, and Southern Humanities Review.