The dim side of 7am still, the sky
just opening up. Hours I know
I cannot get back: spent in the
deafdumb of sleep, unconscious and
waiting for traps to spring, for wheels
to unwind. You are
my waking moments, still.
There is no light or heat that
could burn off this fog,
so I enhance it, stay small
and still in the grey pre-dawn.
Wishing I had scratched the ink
pure out of your skin, wishing
I had made a souvenir of your eyes
or your grief. A trinket box
filled with what you won’t let me
let go of: ticket stubs, highway tolls,
the lip stain I wore on our second date.
Even alone I am not without
the burden I meant to put down,
when I left you. The sky a mile wide
and fraying, and me, grey
under its belly and losing hope.