It sulked for weeks. Intermittent faults are hard to find. What he couldn't guess, his hands groped for in gloom lit by rubies on the diode board. He felt a drip and staunched it, clipped strands of copper, coaxed gaskets, Morsed free a sticking valve, and with a fine- haired brush did archaeology on seams of dust. Now, at two-am a taxi tracks the street.
Someone steps home alone to bear their empty house.
We lie awake, touch fingertips, hear rooms exhale last whispers of the miracle his hands have brailled here for our fumbling hands to read.