A window holds its breathas the day thins to a pale wash.Frost gathers at the corners,soft as dust.Someone walks past,coat brushing the airand sending in a brief drift of coldthat sharpens a thoughtthe way cold sometimes does—clean, immediate,quietly sure...

"waking lights" The room sits in its late-hour weight, charcoal settling where the boards dip. A latch sticks; the cold has worked at it through weeks of short days. The radio mutters through the same reports. Outside, the yard is a sheet of dull metal, the...