"When the temperature drops..."

When the temperature drops so low that

the dog must be dragged to the ritual,

your whole body becomes a smokestack,

burning fuel, and there’s little residual

warmth, only steam from your mouth blending

with the darkness of February, in itself,

more solid than gas, notwithstanding

the remoteness of stars. Almost twelve.

The minute hand carries on, sweeping

the day’s remnants under the dresser.

You’re alone. Cinderella is sleeping

and you feel like a thief, a transgressor

creeping soundlessly, like in a movie,

through your house, as if under cover,

in a world that’s devoid of movement,

in a world that’s devoid of color.