I/U

In the top drawer of your heart
you keep all you closed.
Only at night do you allow
yourself permission to unfold hope
while the moon pulls
bright fingers through
your exhausted navy clouds.
What vows are appropriate
for the ceremony of desire
combing through your hair.
Even brutes temper strength
to clutch infant to chest
as cautious as physicians
palpate tender to delineate wound.
He parts your hair
and pulls teeth gentle
through knots of trauma.
Each parting is hypnotic
each parting spell
and soothsay.
Creased into the form
of a crane you dream
of passage by rail
where you tongue blueberries
from palms trusted
not to hurt you.
The parting moon
is above the clouds
in front of tomorrow
like a cardinal folded away from summer
throws itself red against the snow
outside the window.