White lace dress in a dark room.
Mist in the trees, low light.
Former lover in a busy train station,
entering a train you can’t get to.
The clock, later every second
that you look at it, hours going.
Hot upstairs of a house.
Lemonade you spill with each step.
The dog, dead when you were
a child, alive, barking at the back door,
your shirt that won’t come off,
your mouth that can’t make sound.