Sun skids through the window, bright claws splayed on glass.
A mountain beyond: insincerity of blue. Apartment buildings
shrug against the sky, shoulder bones insistent
against the weight of a heaven drawn too close, too soon. Concretes seeded
with windows dim as ripened olives. I lie to myself in my bed.
Ribboned voices flutter from the casements, flag their measures of anger,
morning’s hunger, morning’s quarrels. Bring cardamom and coffee to a boil:
once against the cold, twice against the war.
The writ of light on scant water tanks spells nothing I want to read.
I close my eyes against the beast of sun, clasp prayers in fists beneath my sheets,
nails dug in slow and shoveled like graves in the dark of my palms and proverbs.
I think this winter is not made for living.

---