the nectarine room

Branches like fingers trace dark patterns

across the bright walls of that room,

I wonder at their boldness, sheer guts

the old woman appearing at the window,

her white winter breasts staring the world

in the eye, the man with restless feathers for hair

digging rutabagas in the rain.


When cracked ice on garage rooftops

means it’s cold outside, I turn up the heat,

watch water drops slide slowly down

the warm side of the window,

try to turn them into words, marvelling

at that room, brightly open

nectarine, as if to say

There is no death here or

what are you waiting for?