Dayward

  
 Pulled my face down in the mirror
 and felt a shift. Pulled the cord to close the blinds
 harder, no blue wash on the floor tonight. 
  
 The next room over feels ten degrees colder
 and the heat is past stolen, past steps. The walk
 down the hall is the slow take back of breath.
  
 The slow take of waking, like realizing you're sorry.
 It's the wrong time of year but it's all anatomy,
 your hair and your eyelids, buckwheat and hulls.