The Spill

The paper gave way with a dry, dusty rip

just as I lost my hold and my grip.

Now I’m out on the porch in the gathering blue

scrubbing at fingers until they look new.

But the black stays behind in the cracks of the skin,

deep in the knuckles where the day settled in.

It looks like a grid of a city at night,

pressed into the lines and avoiding the light.