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.



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