not because of its height in absolute terms but because of its distance. It stands apart—but also in the way. Its roots go deep.
I was lost
and didn’t know it. I had a cellphone-shaped hole in my heart.
A road is a blankness,
a life sentence for its strip of land. But sometimes it glows, livid as a scar.
Sound travels more slowly in the cold.
Over the next four years, some words may freeze before they leave our mouths.
that faint overlay
on every cellphone photo—
my own face
Seasoned, we say,
as if time and weather were condiments.
In penmanship class,
time itself was looped, recursive, as my vision blurred and fingers cramped around the cursèd pen.
boulder field in snow
its only other crop
besides lichen
Ribcage:
simply because of that word, I have always thought of my insides as a jail.
Growing up during the Cold War
we watched for the flash of a nuclear strike by day, and by night, the mysterious lights of UFOs.
turkeys in snow
each footprint resembles
a bird in flight
bitter cold day
crushing dried horsebalm
for the scent of lemons
