The Indigo

The radiators stay as cold as a stone,

leaving me here in the kitchen alone.

The floorboards are white with a wintery rime,

so I dig through the trunk to the bottom of time.

The wool is a blue that’s as deep as the lake,

heavy with woodsmoke I can't quite forsake.

I wrap it around me and find the old char—

the cigarette burn, a small, circular scar.

It lets in a single, sharp needle of light,

a hole in the world that won't ever shut tight.