The blue sling unwraps.
Its borrowed limb-shape
lifts, unfurls, collapses out
the word: Adjustment.
Fused at the former joint,
his arm has been left
to hang for symmetry.
Alone with most of himself,
he angles his arm into a black sweater
to suit and soften its form.
One sleeve ravels too long,
hobbles the bone bent with absence.
He notices objects in the room
have taken new names
and he must reintroduce himself.
They live in proximity, without reach.
The guitar lies in its black case.
The typewriter stutters.
Outside the window’s cataract of afternoon fog,
weather enters its season of wither.

Amazing the things that need an elbow.
A yawn stretches without its parentheses.
Gestures of love grope in fumbled darkness
and numb the night.
His woman sleeps on her side.
In the parlour, everything
is almost close or light enough.
One-sided, five-fingered,
phantom needles threading through
the black weight beside him,
he sits in his chair, looking around
at the things he’s lived with—
the wavering distance between
his body and theirs,
the unthinking movement
that used to connect.
The world rises
to manageable objects:
bone-vase, weathervane,
the graspable name,
the pain of hinges.