K Sherman
A finger, curled.
A bowl.
A couch.An ankle, exposed.
All that.
Tomorrow he wakes.
Blue sky out the window.
Snow on the
cars.
Her song still plays
but quietly.They walked under trees, deep,
in her memory.
Yellow light.
Warm
breath.
Braids unraveling.Quiet things we think, alone.
Yet still, together so
breathless.
