LYING NEXT TO ME,
you roll closer,
mumble that you’re cold.
Cold, as if
you hadn’t
slept warm all these years.
A cotton blanket
on the bed. The trees
with their massive
August leaves.
It is cold.
What floats
through me in the dark,
what bitten thread,
desolation in the towns…
Copyright © Jennifer Barber. White Whale Review, issue 1.1