It is winter. Outside, the hills
are covered in moonlight
against frost. In a cold room
a man shuffles cards
in half darkness.

The heat keeps them rooted.
Heat within, heat without.
Flame refracted in the congregation’s eyes,
their own matchheads hidden
in the quiet space behind the pupil.
Raging.

How quietly the morning comes
in this city of cacophony, like
a woman without ankle bells,
suddenly standing at the door.

Lacemaker with bone bobbins:
braided mesh with slim, oval leaves.
Plum on black silk.

I’m serious as Yoko, hand claps
nothing similar, none digital, no finger
pointing out a tiny word written on the ceiling.