Friday, December 24, 2010

St. Adele

all these women

frozen solid

on the vine.

they curve up

the spine of our roof,

in and around

the windowsills,

and down the creases

of our stairs.

I’ve never seen

so many eyes

so grey, so many fingers

with white knuckles.

I’ve asked each

and every one

if they would like

a bath drawn.

they stare straight

on till morning.

not a word.

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