Image courtesy of kreuzberged.com
resting on your forehead.
I wish I could be happy.
Tomorrow the squirm in my blood
will seem insignificant.
The window checkers the bedspread.
Meandering sleighs of light
pierce the dark mirror.
There a woman sits up on the bed,
pulls up the blinds
watches the trees
fill with morning.
First published in Crab Creek Review, Autumn/Winter 2002 (print edition only)