What we remember
is cold, afraid to leave the bed
while the room is ticking over
like an engine shivering
in thin and blue-black air.

What we remember
is hungry, reading
the morning paper,
waiting to be lifted
by coffee out of death.
And maybe there is bread.

The crows have slept
all night on the crossarm
between the milkglass knobs
in love with nothing.

What we remember
is waiting – a dog
with one blue eye,
in the frigid morning,
cotton stalks looped
with ice, and no wind.

What we remember
is praying, sleepless
all night in the kitchen
chair, drawing worries
with her fingers in
the fine spilt salt.

The crows are finally
awake and gone. The field
is rising from its fog.

Kyle Kimberlin
10.17.2006