Words turn to dry grass
beneath my cramped foot,
Anger to grease ice
on the sea, once turbulent.
In another room I hear her voice over
Again the creaking of the pipes.
In another room she has not gone
Unforgiven and shunned.
Another room is filled with light,
As full as her white wall tent
The summer that she took me in,
Pressed fresh leaves against my wounds
as if to heal them