Eleventh Complaint

Even the buttons on her coat are anchored
And her ribbon feels wrong for the party,
But she goes out in the dark

Aimless, her dog takes
To hanging on her sleeve
And swallows,

From mental rafters,
Fly straight through bombs
In their fit of light;

Gone thirty birthdays
Still nothing’s special
In this month without a moon.

Then she returns through the dark, asking
Why her house must blend
With snow so well

As she walks by these winters,
Walking always too far