the paint on the front door
is older than my eyes
pushing against the door's heavy body
i follow
the staircase's cautious winding
upwards
and away from the street
edward hopper stairway at 48 rue de lille, paris
moving side-to-side
i can hear the soft giving creak
and feel the curved metal edge
of each stair
my hands curl and
grip the thick softness of the railing
even as my tongue
draws thickly against
cracked dry lips
that crave nothing more
than wine
bread
and sleep
on the landing
the number seven
tilts slightly
on a red door
thick with age
the smells of cooked cabbage
and fish
swim grey and thin
in air long-yellowed
and tarnished
by hope long forgotten
pressing the key
into the lock
the handle turns reluctantly
admitting me through its dark frame
i am home
the frayed signposts
of a well-worn track
lead
toward the window
through which
i see snow
painting the softest pale-grey
light on the rooftops
pressing my lips to the window
i watch my breath
spread outwards like an island
on a glassy sea
gustav caillebotte rooftops with snow
