Imagine a cabin placed away from this life.
A single road will touch its boundaries;
the closest sounds of men
will be the planes overhead.



The sun describes you in a dusty yellow,
but all the seasons here are wooden:
doors warped, radiators disabled,
heat from the touch of another.



Turn the light over in your palm.
There are no sounds.
The cars are still in white,
they've given up growling for the day.

​

It could be Christmas Day.
The family could be waiting.