You left a glass of near-turned milk
by the front door to draw a ghost.
We had talked late and of everything.
Sleep was a cold confusion of birds,
the stuck chink of a chaffinch,
robins ticking incessant at the edge
of territory. Ice set hard as pig iron.
We walked there, found him in time
enough to barely hear movement:
grace notes of snow falling after
the fall; slips from the hedgerow –
the faint yield and hold of flakes
crumpling in the ditch bottom
where he struggled, naked as a miracle.
There was no explanation, just warm hands
on near translucent skin, his spider-work
of veins – blue crystallite blooms,
the spindly ribs borne kneading between us.
This other must have fallen clear through,
himself under some misalignment, the frost
hoar masking true punctuation of the fixed stars.
We held him in that dream, our loosed heat
thawing the geometry of his face,
his first-last words: now I know of gravity.