Paint

The sleet falls like old eyes,
setting threads of rain
that mitten trees' fingers
that run fingernail lines
down eggshell-white stories.

And then the
white paint on the walls says:

I will carry on when you are gone though
time will peel
footprints out of my bones,
cold's fingernails will
wither curling leaves out of me.

And then the
bowls in the sink said:

We will carry on when you are gone though
rust will worry
at this sink through the sweet ages
all for a moment of porcelain laughter.

The sleet falls like old eyes,
enough edges to break a man
enough eyes to see him
until there is nothing left to see
until wet leaves of hair

Crown him king of nowhere
iris regalia for the edges of his eyes.