The Least We Know

Tangled together in the bedsheets,
  the least we know is that
outside the window is
  everywhere and everywhen
that pain has happened

held at bay, we like to think,  
  by the tracks of raindrops on
dusty glass, finding their way
  from the second story back to
ground, back to mud and muck

with the smell of wealth, of
  excess, of abundance, of
fertility and rot, of the scent
  of sprouts and seedlings and
mildew, a scent of yearning

and pining, so unlike the scent
  of fine uninfected dust,
like powder meant to soothe a
  child’s skin, like the settling
of air on treasured possessions

like the smell of clean long limbs
  at rest on fresh white sheets,
safe from the rain outside.