I pull your sweater into my belly

hoping you left some warmth behind

when you walked out of the room.

I smell toast and hear the clack

of dishes - it’s not that I want to be here

alone in my bed. It’s not that I like the cold.

At the window a cat. On the street

a mantle of wetness - red, orange.

It’s not that I want to see all this

or put on my black boots

and my scarf, walk to the park

scattering crows in my wake.

My heart lifts as they lift,

birds are everywhere - even here.



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