The sun sloshes through the sky,
shadows seep across the carpet
and the coiled sheets, back up the
wall to that crack that appeared
a year ago on Christmas, the day
the year dies, but not us, never
us, caught in our dreaming,
the cats scratching the bedroom
door into glyphs shouting their hunger
and need, they are lonely, they want
to lick our noses clean, want to bite
us, starting at our dumb toes.