the moon's crescent muscle
nurses aching bones,
grasps the hairs on the back of the throat
until mourning leaks through
the slacks in the window:
cold and whole

I thought you thought
you made a mistake and I was
ice, hooked under the bottom
of the boat floating on the heavy bay

laid heavy like my hand rolled on the
front door **** to indicate your goodbye:
outside air brushes hair off the branch,
electric and alive.

inside, the stars make a mess on the floor and
I fall asleep smelling your hands:
dishes, soap floating on your spongey palms,
scrubbing the small plate of my back.

I thought the scabs on your knuckles was from peeling
winter but it's love- violet in its violence.