what would it sound like
to walk out on the sound
gulls chase
gulls for a bit
that sound
breathing
needles
so I hope for green
through the still black
door to see color to
burst into bloom into
color burst and burst
what thoughts I would have liked
putting them on a shelf or
but what would it sound like
opening my mouth the way
the white heron hides its neck
am I too late
do I keep
taking notes on sheets of ice
to eat but winter wind. The bloody stone by the turn
jogging in winter you’ll never know the name they call you
as you try to catch a glimpse of the burnt remains it crawls under your skin where the bright sky of the north holds sovereignty over the too-short winter
what the worm knows of winter suddenly awake at 3
winter rain the smoothness of a kidney bean
my neighbor’s porch light for two months deep winter
my uncle from the stars of winter
the weight of Sunday winter clothing
bright winter morning
in another room
the kettle calls
other animals 