Nights, Here

by Carolyn Clark

The sweet steam from
the heaters is dampening–
the wall paper
wilts, our hair springs
singular frantic, reaching

We melt at night,
the leaves of my books
are yellowing as I read them,
as though hammocking in

Last evening, as I turned
a page in bed, a black
ant paced over my wrist
and was lost in the dunes
of rumpled sheets
where I had attempted

Well. I never slept,
felt the ghost legs all
night, felt the paintings
curl corners beneath
glass frames.

CAROLYN CLARK is a graduate of the English program at Elon University,
is currently trying to live in New York, often wears dresses, eats almonds and pears, reads.

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