The moon won’t swing in this direction now.
Did we prod its dusty face too softly
to see the cracks, or chip away too long?
I curl, like some shell, in our moon-abandoned room,
fossilised eyelashes on the pillow,
fists stiff as lump-hammers,
the crescents of nails imprinting my palms.
We’ve already ground out the bare bones
and boundary stones of our existence –
which is your side of the mattress
and which is mine. I’m coiled too tight,
but not as tight as the cluster of stars
above the roofs winking their meagre light
as a beacon does, a pathway out.