Under a moon of freezing light
night touches the threads of sleep.
Curtains lay pulled back, bunched in the
middle by a cloth cord.
Flowered wallpaper dreams of spring.
The fireplace light wanes into gray corners.
Day is a bucket of empty, yielding to
frost and mice seeking shelter.
Soft words fall without sound,
cooling alone.
White strips of light, like knives
spilled to the floor and
reach as if gasping for breath.
Roger Singer 