A Game of Sevens
The rain drifts in on murderous wings
flapping a game of sevens, flapping
in crêpe-paper tunes and tinfoil waltzes.
Persephone ducks under an awning. An old
man holds the lift. Cabs pass black as puddles.
The cables groan out their circular trip.
She shakes out her hair by the fireplace.
The kettle roils, an underground spring.
She shoulders her umbrella like a gun.
What we remember becomes us, when the lights
go out: a glance, a shiver. This time,
she promises herself, I will try to be happy.