Weekend

He watches it snow from her car window.
Measured, falling inside its own sound.
Hush meeting hush, dissolution meeting dissolution.
Whitening the yellow rot of teeth where the
chickens pecked the wasted stalks beside
a red wheelbarrow’s mound of snow.
In town, water hatches into streets, slips over
horse bridges into mouths of rivers.
They squeeze into antique stores. Gold letters
line leather spines on bookshelves, Adam Bede,
George Eliot, William Carlos Williams, though
he doesn’t recall the protagonists or their
symbolic ends, he knows the day’s closing
in on them; they will be strangers again.
What dies, dies without resistance.
What lives, lives buried.

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