A White, Unwashed Window Sill


By the cottage window sill, two mugs of bittersweet coffee
dwindle in the icicle light.
By the cottage window sill, cloudy glass is cracked in some
approximation of a fight.
By the cottage window sill, a crinkled novel falls open to the
scene where lovers reunite.
By the cottage window sill, old tissue mounds are blown by
serrated wind out of sight.
By the cottage window sill, blood aches around three wounds
inflicted in the night.
By the cottage window sill, one hand palms earnest morning sun,
lax and ready.
By the cottage window sill, that hand remains, cold, stiff, and
oh, so steady.

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