You were spinning the knob

of a phonograph

 

turntable. The air was cutting

my lips. I crouched down

 

and felt the electric

veins exposed along the carpet––

 

how they have remained,

their pulsing––

 

simple. Everything

in time becomes a light.

 

When I search the house for you now,

your bedroom hints at a man

 

I never took the time to know. I regret this.

Jars labelled and put delicately away

 

on a shelf. I thought

you might have expected this

 

as you approached the window

to stand in moon-scarred night

 

collecting fresh air

for when we’ll need it most. I then stood

 

alone; my hands full

of cracked jars. I searched

 

for a socket to plug your heart back in

and waited, then luminous.