—I’M NOT SAYING I’M WRONG, BUT YOU MAY BE RIGHT

 

 

the dead of winter

 

 

and now

   the cruel chill arrives

blooms in my bones 

   in my everything 

taking tree after 

   unsuspecting tree down 

its weight like a 

   glacial layer cake 

the world made 

   of white bricks 

the largest one 

   coming ajar/falling

crushing us 

   on the couch 

where we wove 

   our silence 

in a maligned knot 

   death no longer

a stranger

   but rather a 

sweet kindness 

   that spares us both

from having to say 

   I’m leaving you