i like to think that bones are gifts
between days fresh
and the bite of noon.
i have hands that tend to curl like
your hair, that curl your hair,
i run them as guides in the
otherwise tangled mess.
i struggle to think that claws can hold you
any better than i ever did, if
the sharp, black pronouncements could
feel softer on your chest;
although, i see, you are better,
better-seen, and better-felt,
and there is that little comfort
if nothing else.
— A. P.