somewhere in december
i awake to find us with the sun
in our mouths
coagulating like yolk. our bodies
folded into jilted corners, eyes
still papered with a dream
grown hazy by morning.
you angle yourself for some light,
propping your head up against mottled
wallpaper swirls, each arabesque
gliding ghost-like in a film
of ungreeting strangers.
the city outside writhes
like the back of a lawless viper;
the windows engulf us
in borderless white. it is
so bright the coffee trickles
down your chin like mercury.
so bright words are put to
shame, scattering under furniture
in this winter room
where memory and glass
sweep our spaces.