we are hand writing, at the table
fire lit, radio playing. scratching
words in time, rhythm comes
naturally, birds beat the window,
cold now, little feathers hoping
for food.
we now descend into darkness,
curtain drawn into night,
november.
mistakes crossed, all can see
the errors ,the blots,that soak
the skin, the stain within.
i am hand writing.
sbm.