Monday, October 14, 2013

The Settling of Bones

Sometimes it's bittersweet, to drive away
with a gibbous moon groping
over the crowns of dusky trees
and dragging her game leg.

We held hands in the dark
(not what you think)
and I could have made up a thousand
stories, but I chose not to be the last sad man

on the shore of a long sad sea.
If it's true, and it is, that I know more ways
that hands can fit together than
even the moon before her wound,

then the interlace of fingers,
the ball of my thumb
wearing your palm like a hood,
might be only professional skill:

and that gasping creak
might be only
the settling of bones
preparing themselves for winter.


2 comments:

rbarenblat said...

(o)

marly youmans said...

Like the whole business about ways that hands fit...

Funny but I got the moon with the palm/thumb again, but I think it's because you had such a strong moon metaphor and somehow it conjured Plath's use of hood and moon.