Dead of winter

I fold myself into Nordic socks

because the patterns speak to me

and I’m cold in an empty house.

Nobody bothered to tell me

I’d wake up with no face

or that the sky would fail to rouse me

because sadness weighs more than clouds.

I cook the meat and stir the stale air.

Tomorrow may be different

but only as far as the sun’s reach

because I’m in a constant spin.

I wonder if the flowers will return.


evil winds

nothing in my pockets,

just empty hands and tired dreams


hindered by ice and faulty bones

with just fragments of song

and nobody to dance with


doors are closing

at an alarming rate,

my god is cold and alone now


when I squint, the fields are an ocean

and we’re all unborn

Documenting flourishes

In my house,

there’s lots of fuzz and woody things

and sometimes too much quiet.

In my lap,

I tend to fiddle with my hands

and fight the urge to describe everything.

In my yard,

a bird has walked across the snow,

leaving little prints that look like arrows.

In my cup,

I like to swirl hot liquids

that make my tongue celebrate being alive.

What’s in your bouffant?

There’s no helmet for me

so I struggle with the weight

of all that falls

and lands in my hair,

terrors pinned in place

like corporal punishment

or any rank Tuesday.

Do you like my sloping forehead?

Let’s eat like cavemen

and maintain our sense of childlike wonder;

maybe we won’t have to forage

for plants or letters or affection

or other silly attachments

after the next big bang.