humid air eventually
halves the bread, left out.
the quiet valor of their kitchen,
every dish untouched

stitches crossed and
recrossed, an anxious
tic revisited.
moans lure her softly from
sleep;
an elbow juts out
from the knotted sheet,
an index of time && stories
mapped in freckles and
skin creases
at the bend.

the room is wincing.
light breathes,
through the blind-slats,
through the eyelet
curtains,

taxing at best.

she draws in deeply,
shifting.
morning jury
primes the window
for cracking.

(either open, or,
straight up the pane)

11/02/2008

Posted on 11/02/2008
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