Day 197

I need you tonight,
moon, am collapsing in
the curve of you.  I found 

a wrench in the street this morning.
I need you tonight,
throwing tools 

(I am afraid to use)
before me, am reaching to cradle
my own knees— 

bruised by misjudgment.
These arms, these fingers are too
stiff. Right tighter, left 

looser, bolts land
arranged in a pattern. I found
it could help 

reckon through clouds,
stars aligning behind.

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