Book of Dust: Ripple

Morose wave lapping at my feet, I
listen: a low groaning stretched over
the water:

you enter the harbor, a great ship,
majestically soot-covered,
limping as a hull limps.

Like a spy, you know all the channels.
At the shore, silent now, quickly now,
the bastard skeletons dive:

I feel the ripples,
toes in the water.

You are
nearby.

Book of Dust: Wound

I will set the bones in the valley
of my palm, until the joint snaps
back into place.
I will knit your skin to its
former glory, if you

let my fingers wield the needle
and thread like a finely-tuned
instrument,

until you are whole,
and wholly mine.