Old hotel, snapped.
Shattered bridge smiting
the absent roof, rails
dropping wet, down comforters.

Bales of smoke
from the old car lot.
Black wolves blacker
outside the window at
dusk.

A woman, pothole-eyed,
said she knew we were all going to die.
Perched, welcome, an owl on
a known stoop.

Seen through a
child’s peeking eye, or dreamed.
Light and cigarettes, holes in a
vacant silk chair-and-a-half.

All the windows fall
inward, clasping the white
chenille robe with her
initials.