The evening is always abysmal, when shopping
lists become signs of faith. Footsteps like wisps
of smoke, hinged breaths released like seatbelts
unbuckled. God, just watching these snowflakes
spiral, hot water being drained from a porcelain
bathtub. I swear there’s quiet somewhere.
I swear there’s static and clean snow. There’s
nothing to feed the life inside here, just empty
glasses and hollow wood, just enough to dream.
Is there someone who’ll breathe life into four
walls, a ceiling, and a floor? But feathers are not
enough. The bluejay outside stole thread from
my sweater. I watched it unravel like fabric after a
thunderstorm as I sat on the floor, dust settling