Atmospheric Pressure

The air in the living room is a wet wool coat.

Outside, the windowpanes are clouded thick,

obscuring the streetlights into yellow smudges.

I set the glass down on the wood

without a coaster, letting the ring bloom.

The ice shifts, a sharp, lonely click

in the middle of the afternoon.

One drop breaks from the rim,

carving a jagged, clear lightning bolt

through the grey skin of the frost.

It doesn't stop until it hits the grain.