Like them,
I gather you’ve died again,

The birds in the window
I’ve not heard from since November.

Leaves beside the snow,
Like moths.

I had a dream you were unfaithful,
You asked to what?

The candles reflected from my table,
In my window an oil field at night?

You’ve dyed each flame
To cover up strands of snow.

There are no birds, I admit.
February is just the breeze in your hair,

The dream you decided
Not to tell me.