-
- March extinguishes my
candle
- beside the window
draft
- where dark begs entry.
- Fried apples simmer on
the stove,
- and night invites a
stranger.
- The wind is north and
fierce
- and rattles panes of
glass
- like loose dentures
among old men.
- I ponder why dark
follows me
- in March, and its
pursuit is unrelenting,
- why it threatens me
with sounds
- of breaking glass.
- I surrender golden
apples,
- cinnamon-glazed and
buttered,
- to intruding dark
- then, in seclusion,
- cling to dreams of
April
- and escape.
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