Just dismiss as imprecise
these lined and written hands.
I seek out stations to replace
our bygone garden shade.
We bide in fire seized
beneath ceiling fans and snow, know this traffic
like an age: even I
fear these amber fires as home.
My heart sits, my legs ache with peace,
I am almost dressed.
All the while I adjust my faith
to the flesh of your bedroom, those
untouchable walls, soft toys
whispering once the doorknob grasps
the imminence of arrest:
you ask nothing, but hover
amongst the lost flock long gone
from your eyes. And as they see me
to the stairs, I am made a child,
holding fast to the rail, to the flightless
arms of a falling elm.