Snow on the roof, pick any card: a notice,

shingle, queen. Patter doesn’t signify

whatever you relieve.

In wall-eyed passages, by decks

ample with gooseflesh,

I recognize my sister in the sortilege of dreams.

She’s never seen this room—never

wintered among sharpers (slight

of hand, their fingernails

fenced every night with sleet).

She wagers kindness. Sorts

misdirected houses, puts bad suits

at ease. Recommends the grate to paper

while, without, white tumbrels seethe.

I see her raise a diamond to the furnace, watch

watermarks hasten after heat. Is this yours?

The curtain is her sleeve.