I

“At odds again,”   
hands moving out   
of the shadows.   
And now, now   
everything seems   
definite, discrete,   
fingers webbed   
with sunlight
the tree lets through,   
arms still in their   
own time, circling,   
catch up, catch   
hold at the wrists,   
like cell chains   
in a watchcrystal   
completing themselves.   
Together again.   
Shoulders, torso,   
each one of us one,   
once more. It is   
hard to imagine   
minutes just past.


II

“At odds again,”   
hands moving against   
the wind like loose   
flapping things,   
washcloths, words   
long frayed with   
careless use. You   
wanted to say   
it was beginning   
to bother you,   
beginning to wish,   
wondering if thought   
in broken light   
could ever touch   
itself, reassemble   
itself. The King,   
our promise, broken,   
the sword we imagined   
gone, hovers like   
leafmold in the light.   
Say it, then, the stain   
of things remains.


III

“At odds again,”
elbow cupped into   
wet leaves. After   
love, there are   
moments of clutter,   
and no amount of   
practice will teach   
you to regard them   
as anything more   
than what you lean   
against catching   
its buried chill.
Keep your fancy   
to yourself; facts   
do not fade but are   
momentarily obscured,   
the work of hands,   
t