Tonight, the old hard work of love has given up. I can’t unbutton promises or sing secrets into your left ear tuned to quivering plucked strings.

No, please. I can’t face the reflection of metal on your skin & in your eyes, can’t risk weaving new breath into war fog. The anger of the trees is rooted in the soil.

Let me drink in your newly found river of sighs, your way with incantations. Let me see if I can’t string this guitar

& take down your effigy of moonlight from the cross, the dogwood in bloom printed on memory’s see-through cloth.