Sextant

His ribs are cracked and he smells
like canna lilies when he rolls up his sleeves,
cuffs his pant legs and buds
tumble into his palms,
over his feet and their smell is soil-heavy
and flat as the light against his hair.
He searches for where patterns fall
and marks the changes like a navigator,
but he has been told
the lilies of India will stitch his ribs together
if he can make them grow,
so every time they drop
he gathers back up each fist-tight bud,
white petals bruised and translucent,
to tuck into his shirt, beneath his collar.
He waits for blooms to open,
each one a hand beneath grey wool,
each one a picked up stitch
to knit him whole.