When voices stir the winds to listen

"Stop," you would oft intimate,
letting the window of air ope
as only to be slightly ajar, just enough
to let a seductive breeze
pass through as a wave,
completing the phrase or
simply slanting to what you thought

you may have said, "you
perceivably fluttered with doe-like
eyes, so curious to see
if I was a hunter who only wanted a prize:

and the night was the ambience:
all around us, a second costume or outfit,
something befitting us even,
"and then your eyes looked
terribly sad as if they had seen
some innocent thing die
before they had a chance to notice what
was going on"

the moon was above us,
an eye gone delirious into pleasure,
not knowing,
completely somewhere else,
a world without end or
even a period:
"i heard such things
as only voices could bend to hear,
the whistle of the soul
to light the colours of the night
into streams, the soul
awoke to find its breath amid
the burning angels,
who living too deeply
never expire,"

the strokes of the fingers
upon the face of the ocean,
i could hear it stirring...

through the windows of air,
the breeze stopped you
as to make it listen to itself.