A month’s respite doesn’t stop the heart
tilting in its cradle at the knock,

the scene replayed before I open the door.
I know from her expression what it is

she wants, but still she asks, and I fetch
like a dog, hand over the score,

notice once more the half-moon scar
on the bone of her cheek.

The night swallows her shadow
catches my sigh as she walks away.

I lean awhile against the door,
listen as the wind worries the trees,

smother the thought: to press
a pillow against my slipping heart.