PATRICIA F. ANDERSON
I am here, on the couch (again? still?),
the dark gritty / bubbling / swaying, sirens
strobing stripes on the curtains above.
I shiver under the arc of stacked books,
swaddled in sweaters and blankets. Light
from the phone glows on my shimmering face.
Across the rooms, in a corner of
a different window, I see the sun
rise behind black pines, so red, coal bright.