We are working in boxes stacked up on wire, pulling our eyes closer together.
I’m writing you to confess to my failures as I brew in the cracked tea pot on the window sill,
Teetering between the snow and a steamy room with two moon faces.
Let’s have a carpet rolled out between us, a buffer on life, glimpses of gypsies and mice with feet balled up and stuck.
Today wasn’t a strain on our skin, but instead a wander into bogs and still brooks and connections made on limp string, wrapped and wound so tight around our fingers that they’ve begun to blend in with the melting sky.