Hard Water

The heater kicks in with a metal-on-metal sound,

and the air by the floor is a knife in the dark.

I stand on the porch while the world is still drowned

in a silence that leaves a cold, bitter mark.

My breath is a ghost that I see for a second,

then it dissolves like a salt-melted track.

The road is a gray that has never been beckoned,

and the sun is a coin that is never paid back.

An oak leaf is trapped in the skin of a puddle,

black at the edges and stiff as a bone.

The birds in the rafters are starting to huddle,

while I learn the weight of being alone.