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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