Lyndsie Manusos

They sit on rooftops in the morning.
Wonder at the sunrise and let their legs dangle
over rain gutters and second-story balconies.

It's all a lie that the dead come out at night.
Just a constant awe of warmth. They lounge
on lawn chairs abandoned in the sun.

Some study the way bodies
steam on cool bathroom tiles after a hot
shower. They stand in our bathtubs

waiting on the faucet. They've forgotten how
to turn the knobs. How many have slept
for an eternity and a day?

Bathe fingers in the boil of cooking pots.
Peek in wooden desk drawers
shadowed by the afternoon.

These are the things they love to do.
Our second chimneys, atop shingles
that have soaked up the previous days,

and we can only continue our winters,
and I know I shouldn't fear sleep, because
it will not be as long as any other.

They've slept in darkness long enough.
They bend like flowers to the sun.