Sarah Huener

I wake up with cuts on my hands
from trying to open
           something, I don’t remember
what or what was inside. It is so, so

cold. You are so, so
           much cheaper than central heating
           and miles away.

Last night we lost an hour, it fell away like a shell
we’d been given, like a skin.
           I pick a flower

that might be the last that will come
                                            this year
from last year’s gardeners.
I know we made no arrangements.

No snow here, just damp purple fingers,
the leaves in the rain, the rain in the leaves.

We counted from two to one together.

The difference between us is:

I wouldn’t build
a bridge for you,
                                 I’d turn to ice
so you could walk across.