...Not the kind of wheel you fall asleep at...


That soft twist, that knot
where your knee proclaims its ending
never entering the beginning
of that curve of shin and ankle.
Always I fear this terrain
of twisted flesh, evidence of some
lacking, some loss,
caught in my gut like a tight pale pear.
But I am amazed
at how you arrive again and again,
amputee of summer, with a slight wobble,
the light crooked and dispersing
with a limp against sky these days.
How you offer a tight smile each evening
into this clenched stump of sky,
the lump of absence heavy
upon you, wanting
to have someone, something,
just to be anything but alone.



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