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.