Out in the distance, away from my window, snow manages me. It falls in slow motion. Am I this infinitely numerable? There is no sunlight to settle upon for now. I rearrange my pillows.
Lately, my perception of the world growls in that low, unsayable way, like the colobus monkey's guttural roll call before dawn. I try to move without the awareness. How does one put off the chill of winter and war and hatred and impatience? There is only supposed to be love.
Stacking firewood this late in the game. Numb fingers jostling timber, then burning.
Why aren't you here? The poet falls love . . . no, the writer falls in love . . . no, I fall in love with the syllables of what is.
A finger in front of the god damn moon? No. We are the moon.
So goes the refusal to part from the sky. So goes the ability to reject the blue light of everything we were ever meant to see.
Winter will leave and spring will dance, with or without me.
not without us.