You striped your shins raw and red
spilling from an open window
onto the porch roof outside.
Hands flat against the bitumen
you brought yourself upwards, tall,
bearing gravel bitten palms.
My hands will ache at the thought,
of your smile through the lifted glass,
half shadowed by the sunset.
Second, I was more careful in the going,
kept my skin as it should be,
clean, whole, unharmed. I did not spill.
Then we watched as clouds scudded
east to west on slow, hidden winds.
Your slips always taught me lessons.
Like how to pick old wounds clean.