My room.
I turn on the dim oil lamp. The old one, my mother’s.
I pull seven pins from my hair, torn loose when wind
gusted me home. Work through the tangles, gently.
Windows open—
I love when doors trembles in frames, when papers are blown
and tousled, when corners lift.
Pale shapes billow. A handtowel, draped at the foot
of my bed, beckons and wriggles, falls still.
The sounds of things stirred.
Eventually I must close the west; I feel rain on my calves, the
sash only cracked.
Water pools on the sill. Sighing, I press the window
shut.
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