Rain skinning granite.
I lay the flat of my palm, let
pools gather between fingers,
streams skim the blue veins down.
This is the real, I know it –
stone, rain, blood, December cold –
the irresistible claim of the material.
And then there’s you, love – or rather
the absence of you – how the morning,
gored by your departure, healed
without a scar, emptied even
the watery syllables of your name,
cut deep into polished black stone.
Here, my hand reaching – and there
my own hand reaching back.