There is a symbolic “X” on your wrist
in red band-aids.
Your wrist is a slender pack of meat wrapped
in the brown paper skin of your arm.
Your arm is in a small clerk-printed photograph
that I am taping to a window.
Clouds that look like mud in the dark waters of the night sky
are sliding from the window to reveal a full moon.
Your image glows in its back light
which is more haunting.
The poet never finds love because
the poet is always looking.
What was it that you said?
We are married to misery and
we should only let it go.