The Shelf

The sun at four is a cruel light,

it catches the edge of the skin.

It makes the body look brittle and white

and the patience look worn and thin.

There’s a hollow there, a pool of shade

where the neck meets the heavy chest.

A ridge like a hull that the water frayed

while looking for somewhere to rest.

It’s just a bone, a structural thing,

but it looks like it’s ready to snap.

Like a bird with a leaden and broken wing

falling into a trap.