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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