12/5/09

the chill knots itself in my hair and a wetness from the wild purple night drips onto cracked lips, sliding down my ridiculous scarf and dusky cotton coat. this wind could wake the dead. cats past nine lives hiding under hurricane houses and early nineties scrap metal. the red-head, sugar cane, static television smile predicts southern snow and the city repeats itself while familiar rain grows faint. the hollow branches i can see from my window have been arguing for hours. sometimes i think they're just as indecisive as i am. looking into the mirror, counting lies backwards. ice and pine cones in my throat.