HALF MADE
by Joseph Millar

Something half made like the love poem
left behind in the front seat
or the youngest child who keeps turning
to leave, his nicotine fingers and widow’s peak.
Something half made like this high rise,
its jackhammer breaking the curb,
its terrace abandoned, then planted again
with lilacs and clumped, leafy herbs.
Something half made like a wedding blanket
nobody thinks will last or maybe
the thin skin of the past:
counting the capillaries and veins,
the tiny bones in your feet,
even at night the blood pulses,
the iron planet hums in the heat.
Something half made
like the song of the crow,
the marriage vows given and taken
even at night, blow by blow.