the sill is cold
as is the morning.
i billow in a distant wind.

i will paint the picture for you:
i am old, a drone, a drag,
bruised calf, bent back
mind regret-clad

witt my head an almanac
heavier than iron, still, frozen
on the windowsill.

far beneath me, concrete sleeps.
uninterrupted, ageless, gray
i fear to wake it, how it rests
quiet, still, so still, so still.