I make shadows with my hands:
some birds, Nixon,
a spider on the wall, a barking dog.
I make shadows
with my hands — momenta,
false tales of you sitting flat
by the harbor, the ease of your legs
dangled beneath a pier. And I make water
in the shadow, some creases on your feet
and you laugh. I made you laugh.
These hands, disrupting sunlight,
know only the loss of you, your neck
and the fictions of some other tide.