What would I write to you if I could write to you rake the light over you felt each feature that’s sewn to the bone of you hold to the hand of you and to the hewn of you now in the how of you hefting what’s left of you here in the heart of us warping what’s weft of you wanting what’s sweet of you weeping what’s sent of you what would I write to you what would I wrest from you if I could rest as the least of what’s lorn from you one with the none of you rocked in the lock of you clasping what lasts of you listening now for the billowing blast of you low in what’s sown of the copper and cast of you not in the known of you knotting the loss of you stung by the song of you wrung from the wreath of you tatted or tattered or stitched to the small of you loose to the sky of you yes to the eyes of you threading this piece of you pierced by the singled the singed and the bright of you what would I write to you what would I like of you nothing that’s sharp of you here in the hurt of you surfacing thinned by what’s fine and precise in you what would I bless of you press and preserve of you curved to the clear of you curing what’s dear of you how make the best of an ache as a puncture wound here in the other you how can I cover you under the skin where I’m pinned to what’s blue of you here in the ark of you after the dark of you blind to the bite of my having lost sight of you what would I write to you what can I ask of you cut by the tiller who tenders the toil of you mended to mind of you curtained in crepe of you how can I wave to you what have I saved of you breaking my breath with you salved by the half of you sleeping as soft as you reft of the most I might wake to the ghost of you.