Sometimes, when the moon floats in
around midnight, your silence
becomes an attic above my room.
You lie on your chest, waiting. I count
the years on your back.
You ask me
to look at you, so grown, look at how
I lie on the floor

and I look out the window, at what lies
beyond the pallor of your ribs —
our yard, our wars, our debts,
our sniffles scattered in the streets.