I’d weave myself of wool the color of sun. I’d spread my body over yours 
and lay my head against your heart.

You’d open your eyes. I’d see myself: a tiny dot inside.

*

I call again. Night after night, a hollow ring. Where are you 
in your threadbare hoodie, eyes burnt-out moons 
against your winter skin? 

Floating down the river. Soot-caked under a train. 
Fighting rats for garbage scraps. 

*

When we were kids, my sister rescued birds. 
Her long-fingered hands would tuck 
& fix their feathers, wings. 

Now fly away.

*

Who will save me if I can’t save you? 

*

The window shows me moving closer to myself. 
Rain twins lamplight on the street. 

*

Outside, each puddle is an eye 
I will to find you. But my blues 

cover the view.