The boxes of bread seem smaller. There are sixteen of us under the dustmoth's slight. 

He's from a state far away, but will not tell why. 

In the window held together with thin aluminum panels. 

There are ten half moons tonight,
held in phase with infinite hesitation. 

The moons keep my heart from speaking. 

The brain above separates. 
Falls to bed, pilless but none sadder. 

Seven thorns on top of my palm. Their pain travels to a fractured elbow. 

And the marble is now clean. 
And it is sad to wonder.