The unwelding of us was reverberating
and time was heat even then. Though
I feel its waves only now—a stretching

of full air, an enchanted scraping
of flimsy tied veins, these boats
poorly moored to moving docks

never moving water.
Then electricity, inflaming suddenly,
and there is a terrific prying apart.

These days, I can sit with the snow ice
spearing down and empty myself of it.
When at least parts pour back in, though,

and I smell the skin you wore in summer
when a wind blows,
restlessness speaks volumes.