Branches of lightning falling from
clouds of leaves grieve wearing
only shadow woven by hands
broken trafficking in
golden filaments bent around
stolen moments tears mend.

Monuments opening to mend
extinguished men around
whom my party guests move clueless, in
the mood, in this room from
out of the tomb of which bound hands
return Jonahs wearing

agonies we burned. Ash wearing
prayers the way prophets’ hands
forsaken take for granted, from
broken romances mend,
my ache of boned memories, in
graciousness pass around.

Funereal flowers around
dawn-creeping dances in
this dank parlour left to gather, mend
fading spirits wearing
my passing interest trashed from
the beginning, when hands

grasped at chances only those hands
my own clasped ever from
our start knew how to ask. Wearing
never much else around
here then, than these shadows we mend
whenever we few, in

tandem, drew close our own end in
silver webs torn to mend.
If only since, mist folding around
this time most seasons, hands
holding no one else’s, wearing
healed wounds’ bruises, pull from

          our calamitous past echoes from
          out of cavernous hands
          cowardice ivy strangles around.

          Vows hardening beneath us, around
          this garden weathered hands
          wintered with silenced screams we run from.