wetlands in winter

I crush another cathedral
with every step

clouds in our airspace

and all this immigrant snow
clinging to our land

spelling out fences

the immaculate ignorance
of snow

At the silent vigil

we brought our words folded up like dangerous umbrellas.

gone back to woods

all that’s left is location
location location

The White House, it seems, is now made of glass,

and its occupant insists on throwing stones.

I was always a party of one.

I’d come in, sit down, and make myself uncomfortable.

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.

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