The vice—close the afternoon
the rain-black beat back the closed curtain trimmed enameled
wooden fixtures in the cool glassy reflection
her gray-stained eyes
blue
her bright alive now sleeping crimson hair
draped in curling carelessness down her shrugged shoulder
her voice speaks just a little calmer, cooler
it’s colder outside and the glass fogs and freezes
rain down the corroded tin
the half-heartedly hammered sheet-metal roofing
the shed outside playfully rasping the keys
rough and off-note slightly
her face pale and wondering waiting
looking back her profile remarking
and the faded greens, fragilely wrought
by warmth and silent suicide
grow bolder
she sits, cat-like by the shade
and whispers sweet nothing apprehensions to the silent clock
the quiet ticking of the rain