It’s rough like canvas– unpainted roads on old sails. Lake won’t fish itself.
Distant thunder shakes glass–the world appears behind closed blinds. Hold fast.
Condensate from steam sticks to our pink bathroom walls– we missed the morning.
Balled up like paper, the hood of the car burns–rain wets the tar. We wait.
Christmas lights, hang on! Spring is twenty days away– hang on to your homes!
above rain puddles, the red of stoplights shimmer– Winter, stay your leave.
Housemate’s hairs stick, plague shower floors–winter’s rain, my refuge from the filth.
I forgot to post a new poem yesterday– in other news: trees.
Old house, don’t mind me. I’m hiding from September behind brick and stone.
Your left hand against the car’s cold window–through it, fields of ink, the night.