It hovers in dark corners
before the lights are turned on,
—–it shakes sleep from its eyes
—–and drops from mushroom gills,
Toi Derricotte – A Place in the Country
We like the houses here.
We circle the lake turning
into dark cleavages, dense-packed gleamings.
We could live here, we say.
On a day of windy transition, one season to the next,
you spoke of helping your mother close her house,
of the choices you had to make—what to discard,
what to keep—as if it were your childhood itself
waiting to be plundered. You kept a Persian rug,
Rebecca Aronson – Parking Lot, Pre-Dawn
The only light this hour
a sheen of crisp ice refracting
from last week’s snow piles; a woman