red plaid (skin:
eggshell white and
porcelain fragile) flannel shirt.

hands bleached by a
lemon accident in the kitchen
blonde curls softened by sleep
(vague scent of dreams
deafening sound of clocks and
snowfall)
door closed blinds drawn
so they can’t watch the films
that play in her head past midnight
(remastered sepia footage of
children who knew better)

she stares at the wet
coffee grounds dripping
through the filter.
at the
unfinished crossword and coffee
ring on the counter.

dawn:
the light will last until
the sky catches fire and
shoves the burning sun back below the
horizon
and in the hearth of ebony velvet
the stars come to nestle
(embers
they burn out when the man in the moon
left to tend them
falls asleep with a patchwork
quilt draped across his shoulders)

so when she sleeps again
(her bed is warmer than she remembered)
and the coffee is
tepid
(sixteen across)
the other side of the pillow will be
cold.