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.