Morning

This is the stroll that makes you the man.

You who abandoned the drapes of her window,

left hung shut and velvet

between leftover stars and the scars of her naked spine-

where you emerged from her bed,

found silence in the shadows,

gathered sweat-stained wardrobe on inside elbows,

the sun rising overhead—

This is not a tender goodbye.

At most, its overgrown toenail tearing sock holes,

a cold tile tip-toe, a door closed

behind your belt-buckle-stumble

out into the leaning streets—at least

you have the city to pretend

its walking you home

with your tuft of chest hair heaving,

her last conversation, fleeing—

arms of wire lacerating

through the shapes you make by breathing.