Between your two weakest fingers
the quarter slips, your wish
drowning half in moonlight
half held down by your arm
— you’ve got an hour in a meter
clogged with ancient lakes and marrow
with wings seeping through the altitude
where north stays stranded in your bones
juts from the curb
and a little water for your heart
— with the first handshake
you will forget again, your wrist
towed from beside some motionless glass
filled where nothing else is thirsty.
