settled in a glass grown vineyard,
the sleep-addled living room
door with gutteral hinges, making friends
with pall mall smoke rings
and let ghost blood spill all over
on couches and our moncler's
wake up to the sound of you crying
on the staircase feeling the scratchy carpet
through blankets on the bed
like my heart is teething, hurting again
he picked me up and lay me there
like you once did except you've been dead
for five years