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They couldn't generate in that unromantic house
all stainless steel or kitchen white
scared to show goose-pimpled skin at night
they huddled under ice blue sheets
remembering old flannel, remembering naked

I used to like pastel, she said
referring to the bathroom set

They began to smell clean as death

Let's leave she breathed
dig an egg-nest to spawn
down among the small things

without whispers they donned
their wintry things and trod out
shovel deep in snow

An empty skull of house
now blasting heat
hulked on their lot

Though man made, it rasped
I do not rot.

      — Beth E. Janzen