Last night’s dream—another
lover (crossed off
the list years ago) talks

nonstop

in a back room lit so
irresponsibly. Her watch
stops. It’s past time

to leave. She can’t
make out the license
plate numbers

through the glass.
She slips through a door
without hinges. Outside,

it’s colder than she
remembers. Back inside
and repeat. Snap.

How can she know
till she sees it?
How can she see it

when his fingerprints
block the view
from this angle? She chooses

the sting

of substantial windchill
over the agonizing drone
of lies. She awakes

hours before dawn
this time of year, a bag
of screws beside the bed.