I.
This pile of dread builds
like macular degeneration
or my husband’s snore.

II.
These knives
cannot even cut strings,
little lone the shards of yesterday’s defeat.

III.
“May I speak frankly
for a moment,”
said the professor to his students.

Their thoughts trailed off
as their faint heads bobbed
in the rhythmic motion of “yes.”

IV.
I have this heap
of blue and yellow fabrics
but no idea how to quilt them together.

V.
When I turned to the shadow,
Fear was there, smiling.
A toothy, pleased-with-himself grin.

The train runs every 40 minutes,
but it’s 2,000 miles away.
My only escape.