A Man Who Had Farmed With His Wife

All he remembers now
are the space between her fingers.
There are days a certain cloud
can open his chest like a plow,
turning up seed they had thrown
to the animals and fields.
Nights he sits out in this tavern
drinking shots of bourbon,
hearing the wind rise harder
and reaching to stuff more burlap
between those cracks of emptiness. . .

knowing it forces them wider apart.