She is afraid she will be cold. In truth, she doesn't want to die, doesn't want to leave the skin she's loved, voice that rises within her like a snake, hair that never obeyed her. In the harsh brick of winter red and watered milk light, there is this wall and my whipping coat. People walk quick frowns of breath lessness past the mountain cafe. Beside the thick door, I accomplish hours of singular coin- begging.
Birds appear, struggle a dance, search the abandoned sidewalk tables, disappear.
The beautiful knob is grasped. Enter the quick instant of mottled voices escaping out. Today I bring the crust of hidden bread to my lips and learn to eat when I am eating. It is what we do all the long days of August. We pick onions under a fifty cent sun, worship ice water, shade.