On the Gutter

There were no stars. The well was deep enough.

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I drank water and began to write by hand again,

hieroglyphics against stone. I saw an eagle. There

was the mention of an ox.

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I told you about an axe in the woods, half-gnarled with moss.

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We declared the artifact inadmissible.

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The night was spent with our palms at our own throats.

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I missed you. Not the you that you are, but the you that you were.

I go hunting in the dark. I carry no weapon.

I flip the covers over. I imagine your face transposed over mine.

The ice has not yet thawed.

Your face is a reflection floating on a patch of snow in the river.

And I do. I do long for you terribly.

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How many rungs have we clung to by now?

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