there is this: the straits of your lips thawed out, hands splayed in symmetry under the anatomy that makes us fallible

—morning will come to ask for you and what will you say then?—

necks of half-stripped trees are woven
tightly, we expect winter has been fleeing,
slipping out into the night, leaving us empty
handed when morning arrives

the view from Monday appears staggering
with few thunderstorms as we hung tattered
coats, limp, behind closed doors; calking, still
shivering from the howling winds
of December’s yawn

November began
with stiffened fingers,
a few hazy mornings,
too frail of wrists, and
scrapes from swollen
words on our bare knees—
wearisome evenings hung
in sadness.

For nights at a time
I have been sewing years,
together, in those garnered
boxes full of old photographs
and a bundle of typewriter
letters tied by a single
blue thread.

There is comfort in
heavy coat pockets,
carrying a history of
unsure things, like
tea-stained lace, a
delicate cameo brooch
and a small book of
winter poems.

a pastel shade clouds sunlight from the sky
barefoot along pavements tracing
gentle patterns on skin

soaked clothes drip
Thursdays through
fingers

mending walls within
raindrops curving smiles
from melancholy

…to be the spaces
between your ribs,
gaps along frets
laced against the neck
of your guitar strings
mending cracks on
sidewalks with moonlight