Around my wrists, these thin clasps— brass bracelets with the hundred- year-old weight of church bells A wave crests without diminishing into foam Weren't we too made like this Heat-pressed into mud lined with soft beeswax until rain or a cold river cracks away each surface of bone Again & again metal curls & gasps for air Out of one mold how many names for the Beloved
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.