1.11.11

We will spend our nights
eating vestiges of dumplings
as cold sweeps into
our window panes,
rushing through
empty spaces
between the wood
exhaling into the house
and fighting the heater
tooth and nail.
Blood for blood
and cold for hot,
we only live about
eighty years each,
spend a third of them
asleep and even more
in silence or in chaos.
Death counts
our ribs while we snore
toss and turn,
we might be better
off trying to love
each other.
Of course we won't
ever know what
that means.
But as absurd as it
seems, in those
quiet moments:
Tick Tock tick tock

goes the big 

wooden clock

and the wind 

whistles in again.