Teasing the door open a crack, winter hours,

with light sharp as a broken cup,

sinking. Night’s approaching water

under the weight of salt, from the eyes,

the eyes’ sea, a darkness. You remember:

more loved for the memory of love.

Let us perform an exorcism: unearthing childhood,

past lovers, the vacuum running, birds cresting,

a plane’s dim blue shadow.

There is change—the ratio of your body, of mine

measured in light, in salt. Worth something.

Aching, substantial, in counts and measures,

the day ahead a string of glass beads.

The birds have come to rest, as you will.

Will it. There are mountains to climb between now

and morning, even if you don’t stir.

If there is time, we can watch the crescent moon

taut as string, framed between two branches

as it seeks to elevate itself, to become more than stone,

as we do, loving the light for what it hides.

Published in Spring FLAR (Fredericksburg Literary and Art Review, May 2016)