it is dark outside, like the rain
the soft rain in january,
stripping the snow of its white.
there is a loophole somewhere,
with the rain and with the right,
a loophole or a noose,
i am the womb in your pillow,
i gather your dust and save it
for a sunny day; if i blow softly
in a ray we can pretend it is gold.
but we let our bodies fade into masses
and i haven't weathered the dough.