Often I have read—have nearly finished—
a book so sharply good I snap it shut.
I sabotage those scenes with my own pulse.
(Don’t ever let me shut you up. Don’t let
me turn our home into a quiet place.)
At start of winter here the sun stays hot.
Promises to sicken what last sugar
the flowers contain until the air sticks
rotten in our nostrils. Often I find
I hold my breath against the last sweet smell—
so certain this, or this, or this, or this
is the moment of the late caramel turn.
Our doors must never slam. They must flutter
open, and close softly, like printed fans.