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.