(no subject)
Already, you imagine the nights you will spend on your own,
face turned to the door, waiting.
The soul is unabashedly hopeful, a fish
swimming its hurried circle.
This could be the hour of opening. The floorboards yawning
beneath unexpected toes.
Already, you imagine yourself sick, that worried fever growing
into something measurable. The mercury rising
in its glass and you, left to do its bidding, hot-headed and senseless, stumbling
to the edges of the room.
What is this wind we call winter, what is this
whipping us around the house.
face turned to the door, waiting.
The soul is unabashedly hopeful, a fish
swimming its hurried circle.
This could be the hour of opening. The floorboards yawning
beneath unexpected toes.
Already, you imagine yourself sick, that worried fever growing
into something measurable. The mercury rising
in its glass and you, left to do its bidding, hot-headed and senseless, stumbling
to the edges of the room.
What is this wind we call winter, what is this
whipping us around the house.