by Katie Kilcup
I sit here. Fan thrums a little two-toned song
over in the corner. It’s not clear what all those exhalations accomplish.
Outside the window, a world
of light. Concrete, especially, is a plain mystic in the early hours.
Restless, I have said again and again that the world,
somehow, is not enough for a woman of such great appetite.
What is needed — a wind that speaks
directly and does not cool,
breakfast of eggs.
As though by peeling the eye, I might see.