Brendan Grady

Stirred up by a stick, picked up by the wind
sent spiraling above cinders to land near
the zipped tent's shadows, campfire sparks
vanish like the lit wick of some two-bit votive

pinched out. I've been sleeping around again.
Why confess what you already know.
Once, I watched you put out a cigarette
on your wrist. As I treated the burn

I never loved you so much. It's too late  
to turn the night around, say I can't wait
for tomorrow. Or look at that moon. You
turned in; the moon's a bitten-down fingernail.