Purple

Sleep
is a net curtain away,

dawn spreads
like a plum bruise.

Propped on raisin pillows,
we lace our toes

to the rattle
of the box fan,

hold our breath
against the flush

and downstairs pad
of feet.

A smoked mist
clogs the drainpipes,

an engine shakes
the patio,

throttles the French doors
we never

open.