The Wait

And you wait again, and find
dust a sheen on every angle. And
you think of spice and earth and
Eastern sun, and how he waits,
an imprint on the land. And you wait
for Meucci’s wire to come alive
and his voice to make the air vibrate,
to touch your thin-skimmed drum and turn
to words in your brain. And you wait
for his fingers and his lips, dust-sheened,
to touch your cheek. And you wait
in winter wind, and he in winter sun,
until your flights converge, and flesh
meets flesh and waiting is out-waited.