Friday, November 26, 2010

cold fingers

indeed, i do not dare.
reading jane austen,
at twenty-four, for
my cold fingers in
an unheated bedroom.
a lonely desk where
no one visits.
slumped in oversized
chairs at crowded
my rings are falling off
because hands are too
tiny now in winter.
the color peach and
no more blossoms;
or raisins, always hidden.
just clocking hours
and watching the little
ones play winnie the pooh.
watching the older ones
grow and singing to myself
in the car on into roseville.
going fast and deep into rain,
into lauren's house, into
small town breweries.
into thinking nothing and
everything. into losing words
and blocking out the things
that make me go sour.
not wishing, not praying,
not hoping; mechanical
and being happy in bed alone
by myself.

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