Signs of God

You are framed in the heart of a window.
The warmth of his shoulders
hardens on your fingertips.
Under the streetlamps,
rain washes away his footprints.
Your notebook's closed
but the thought of him slips out
to rejoin the nights now gone.
And over there, the shadow of a cat,
night-wandering too, is lost.
Since the first verse will do,
you put Hafez
back on the windowsill.
You run your hand
over the silk handkerchief,
knotted corner to corner,
the Mother Book is wrapped in.
Under a silver shawl,
your shoulders, in silent
rhythm to the texts, are shaking.
Inside the covers of the old verses,
signs of God are rotting.