That old keepsake of yours, the troll-face
doll stares at me from across the room.
I am in its gaze, unable to avoid the wicked grin.

The heating system makes cooling-down noises.
We doze and dream. There is no connection
between the dream and what happens in life.

The drumbeat walk of rain on the roof
keeps a steady rhythm, like afterhours music.
Soon the gale will be everywhere –

it can pass through the eye of a needle
or move heaven nearer to earth.
Once more the quieter sounds strive to be heard:

skinflakes dropping, soapy water dripping
from dresses and shirts. We lie still expecting a pause
in the movement that carries life forward.