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This Ring What was once a smithed and perfect Roundness has wobbled under slow Burn of hand’s forge into more egg Than sphere, the silvered tracing of Some planet’s orbital ellipses. My thumb noses its curve, nail works Against ring’s worn edge. Forgotten Weight, its heft imperceptible, unless I’ve slipped it off to swim. Then, Negative-weight buoys the hand up, This naked finger thinner and Off-kilter, a boat unmoored. On, It anchors the murmured incantations I spoke when I first slid into it.
When we holds hands, left in left, Rings’ clacking sings the ecstatic Reunion of knotted fingers. Its seat the landscape between joint And knuckle, a seal of what we’ve Gladly knuckled under. Every Accidental knock, whether while Reaching across the table or While passing through a doorway arch, Reminds us that our course is The same silvered ellipses, that The metal we and time have un- Perfected perfectly holds Us in our own wobbled orbit.
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