Late sun smoothes her quilted skin,
her cheeks rise under her eyes.
She’s silent in the car, squints
at streetlights flaring up along the road.
She says nothing when I feed her,
but I see how she tracks the glint
that bounces off the spoon.
When downtown smog smudges
her bedroom windowpane, I begin
to draw the drapes. She tugs at my wrist
and says, It’s not enough, but let it in.
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