onion, lantern, money.

Nights too, it seems a risk to sleep;I remember you walking by the cathedral, head down, a bucket of clouds and oil smeared above. You were waiting to be strewn by my brush or hand, rearranged and altered in the white spaces. But it never worked, really, Or at least that's what you said.

It was strict, the way we walked; only your shoulder remained obscene, but I never wished that or our perforations away. And now you sit on my bench under the spruce, a cup of cold water in your hand that you won't look up from.

© Lauren Bernhagen 2010