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Clouds thick white tinged grey
people who have made love a thousand times
and no longer speak to each other, that's us.
Thawed for green
tops of trees that send no spike
into the sky.  Injured bridges
all follow to the same place.
That's us at a crosswalk,
bandaged onto the earth like a landfill,
collage.  We're hoarding our watercolors
and filling the house with smoke
we're sending the envelopes early
through another disintegrating home
all the little dishes stay intact
In this mid house
the spark is scourged early
light comes only from refrigeration.