You come here to sort the cold
You come here to sort the cold
meet in front some nude
embraced by a wooden frame
half pine. half as if the paint
needs the silence, covers her death
on a wall kept up to date
the way the journals report
on those latest lotions that dry
from the bottom up, let the corners
touch ̶ this woman was loved
and from among so many colors
given eyes that never close
sees you are holding a coat
already folded, held tight
as if something has gone wrong.