We’ve been locked in for days,
pale claustrophobes.
The wind pulls at the stays
of the leaves, sullen lobes
motioning to the glass.
All we own drifts up like silt--
a white trail of dust like a sash,
the bedclothes roughed and spilled,
and the two of us twinned as eyes
seeking always some little gain or praise
while the rain drums out of perpetual skies
over all the dark houses slung low as drays.