The wind insisted nothing, came to my face
With the frittery gentleness of nothing.
I had not noticed were I running a race
Or had head bent down, pensive, on some one thing.
But I was doing nothing, and so found grace
Given by the wind out of nothing.
The wind was slightly misty, as I recall,
With filaments of seaweed threading the bare
Blowsy breath that passed down the empty hall
And touched my cheekbone hanging there
Blank as a bank of paper, or a roll
Of scripture with no writing anywhere.
And then in the nothing air there hung, as I recall,
Your perfume, too; and from that nothing, all.