quilt

The room is quilted;
the soft

walls wear the purple well.
The illusion of endless

warmth emanates from textured walls.
Her bare feet

pass through piles of colorful fabric
on a hardwood floor, mounds

of each day's remains that
bled out at night when the streetlights

aligned perfectly before her desk at 5 in the morning.

She will fold it all back into her walls
hours later, after she mourns the moon

as it retreats
behind her pretty quilted walls

while she keeps up at dusk,
bending the final moonlight with the needle,

pushing it in and out of
the veins of the quilt

Kieran Kieckhefer

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