Sometimes, I’m afraid of hinges—
the way they pinch the dark, jaws wide
as flowers, no teeth worth saving.
You have no idea how much it hurts
to use periods, God, it takes so long
for the next sentence to start
and I’m tired of shivering
between letters. But I was just
thinking that maybe a sliver
is what men call firewood orphaned
long enough to forget the smell of rain.
Some mornings, my pillow feels
like salt might if God shut his eyes.
Please don’t leave. Listen,
whatever bones you have left,
that’s what you have. Lie them flat
and they make a canoe you can’t
climb inside though you can try
and if you sink, I won’t speak
of your hands, I have so little left to say
about horses, and things shaped
like horses whose shadows lie
soft as thorns pushed to one side.