The wool of the black sweater caught

The wool of the black sweater caught

on a jagged bit of skin I forgot

to smooth down when the nerves were high.

I yanked it back and didn't cry.

But there it is. The old habit returned.

A map of a river, dry and burned,

carved into the ridges of the nail

where the pink turns into a ghostly pale.

I stand in the mirror, fixing my tie

for a man who didn't have time to die

with everything finished. My thumb is a mess.

A small, sharp piece of my own distress.