The Basement Light

Last night, I left the basement light on.

The stairs creaked and my paper-thin pajamas

rustled as the sickly little bulb pulled me close.

Before I knew it there was a twist of the doorknob

that could not but must have been

by my own hand.

Snow stretched way,

way up so that there must have been nothing else in the world but cold,

and what little air stayed in my lungs then

must not have been enough.

I don’t know how long I ran,

or why either.

My fingers blacken now,

and numb,

and the dim basement light does next to nowt to warm them.

wph

VT

17 years old

Poetry

By wph

Cameron Winter

1)
I think that when he looks at pianos,
The keys are stained and worn in
With grooves and dents,
In the shapes of his fingerprints,

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Poetry

By wph

The Eldest Game

ghosts of peo / ple hiding in this house / they grew up in and left / hiding under tables in clo / sets long thin men pale pe / ople dark people all hidden / separately in the same room / waiting for the seeker to finis / h counting endlessly endl

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Poetry

By wph

Portrait of a Man Looking Back

He can see kids glowing in the kitchen,
Hands sticky with sweet gossip,
Bright, beautiful little selves smudged by the window that he,
A cracked old statue has broken his hands and fingers by banging on,

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