Barometric

I reached for the plastic lid

skittering toward the radiator’s dust,

and my left leg reminded me

of the year the pavement broke my fall.

There is a grinding now,

a dry machinery of bone on bone

that predicts the rain better than the news.

I traced the white line,

the jagged river of a scar

no one visits anymore.

It is a cold cartography,

the body keeping its own ledger

of every time the gravity won.