The building in the sun across the street is covered in lines.
My grocery list is full of Castlebrites and sugars. There are seasons to this.
I trust the lines that hold the fruits, the lines of my room, my body. There are
as many windows as there are ways to make do. Through each glass a woman stands at the stove.
Her name is Carla, and she’s waiting for the stores to open. It’s late. The chill on my skin
doesn’t bother me. For once I leave the window ajar overnight, to start anew
tomorrow. Berries erase themselves from the leaves.