Tonight, the old hard work of love
has given up. I can’t unbutton promises
or sing secrets into your left ear
tuned to quivering plucked strings.
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No, please. I can’t face the reflection
of metal on your skin & in your eyes,
can’t risk weaving new breath into war fog.
The anger of the trees is rooted in the soil.
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Let me drink in your newly found river
of sighs, your way with incantations.
Let me see if I can’t string this guitar
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& take down your effigy of moonlight
from the cross, the dogwood in bloom
printed on memory’s see-through cloth.
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