her near warmth in the bed beside had gone down blonde, but beside me now — her broken english in pieces on the hardwood floor in this home her home the decorative grammar tied back against the white wall paint bubbling under the low sun on the sullen sill an immigrant here something a dark dirty brown darts by leaps and sprays I’m asleep again my back pierced through with her bed spring the sun is coming from outside she is gone my sweat mine punctuated by the phone call terrible news.
Greatly enjoyed this piece – well writ.