A rain grey day the kind that tosses out black
and lands with soot-like appeal over

everything. Wrought iron gate the absence
of space. This is how I remember you: a streak

of black down the sides of white houses;
the garden tangled mess at the side. The roof

needs roofing, the kitchen painting, and the floor,
linoleum straining up from its corners. Later, trees

wield ice like knives. It would make us stay
in the kitchen all night, cook a broth.

We hover in the midst and means of light,
a waxy tablecloth over our shoulders.