After Hadara Bar-Nadav

I unthread my fingers, which are glass
braids I keep forgetting to put on, like a
kind of astronomy. A nub of nails lodged
in the end of a sky. I unthread the scalp
from my face, a leg from a hip, red from
a window. I unthread my moon-roofed
shadow, trembled in jasmine. I unthread
you from me, the way you folded your shirt
on the bed, like it was breathing.