Long or not so long
after the fall, the irony cuts deeply
and I watch, trapped behind glass,
watch wounds that need sutures
and wish I could stitch them
with thread made of sinew and a needle of bone.

Instead my fingers are caught by keys, my bones
not so useful as a needle now, only
fumbling, striking the syllables, wishing I could translate
emotion into language with any precision.
How do I say that
I wish I could bleed for you?

You chose, a choice not entire but a choice,
and lost that in the instant.
Of all the wounds you bear, that is the worst.

You lived in the wind's arms and the water's,
through some kindness perhaps or
only luck.
You lived through the fog,
the grey-toothed and sucking darkness
that stripped you of caring.

Trapped behind glass and with nothing but words
to give, nothing to offer, I wish
again and again that I could buy you joy
with my own, that with my arms and my flesh
I could show you beauty again.  I would give
my name, my voice, my very bone
if you could remember laughter.

It is not so long after
the fall, not so long yet, and still
the grey and toothed apathy tastes you.
You wonder, still, if you should struggle; and
if the wind grasps you again, will you fight it?
This is what cuts so deeply, this
is the wound I cannot help you to heal
from behind glass and wire.  My skin against yours
could carry a message of life and even,
I think, joy.
Let me thread my bones for you
and stitch these wounds.