Each joint still weak. Creak and quiet. Hands that meet
above the head. Prayer, a crown. Limb and splinter,

the young not walking. Your glance away
as you ask. Cracked skin, red earth. Lovers

who think lying awake will solve the problem.
Mortar and pestle, brittle page. Wrists,

stiffness bent, a gift. The sun freckling
your shoulder, your bare soles tender but callusing.

Who isn’t weak? The sorry, the left here?
Scavengers, prisoners, believers? Eurydice lost,

and lost again? Say your name into the field
and it will be so. Dogwood bowed, brush bitter,

dandelion seed blown free. How we may tomorrow be
strangers. How it takes moments. How you could never

be too near me. Heat of breath, this closing space.
Wish and whisper, lift and grace, it will be so.