Untitled Poem #2

1 August 2017

*
You button this sleeve the way smoke
is trained –a sudden shrug
and the night moves under you

can’t see you’re still on your feet
and though they no longer fit
the ground is already a crater

where her shadow would have been
holding on from behind
as a clear, moonlit dress

and the last thing you saw left open
as the slow, climbing turn
that’s still not over.

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