fifteen on my windowsill,
yet ink on my hands that I will wash
and on scraps that will be crumpled
and i like to open them when the house falls to murmurs

there is no moon here,
and I've seen no stars
between bars
that keep out
the vicious
and
keep me in

yet a light, somehow,
shines on blank pages
(empty for ages)
that whisper
come closer
and
cover me