Having darkened my hand with dark ink in
an age when close and
distant are cloudy unaided having
made so much that no

body wants to eat I wait for the latest
historic storm and the
scrape and salt that wakes us too early
or too late

model mountains pen in
sugared cars I try to

lift the snow with a wave
of homemade rhythm into
sky like berries almost black

but do I fracture some rule with
this spell how many feet do I have

to long for long-lasting mud
and the birds who

visit though we won’t learn
their names this year

either but the tracks lead
to a curve turning

back on itself with a smile
the breath leaves

green leaves shake

so let’s finish off the crackers
and call them
cookies we can watch
a movie through the neighbor’s
window just
balance on this skull

Sometimes you start
with a blank page other times
there’s no choice

the world before
you were born

prefers a simple table
salt, pepper, a clean glass
still water and when
voices rise

walks out to the balcony
thinks about the cigarettes we
smoked and flicked without though

we would never imagine
doing that today with all the

in the air and settling
down into the roots of your hair

you hardly need the stones
as you walk into the lake