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.


rbarenblat said...


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.