Tender is the night, crawling through the static
of a radio left on the lawn;
your ghost hums in the silverware drawer,
spoons chiming like small, tired bells.
I butter bread with the moon,
swallow craters whole,
and wait for the kettle to whistle your name—
it never does.
The clock grows fur,
the cat grows roots,
I grow a second shadow
that mimics the way you once
tucked summer behind my ear
and called it a promise.