Winter Field

This funny place,
every place somewhere else.

How, I love you, turns a face,
changes minds, becomes a back.

Mine, too,
into this river spine of loneliness

up freezing ground,
snow-warmed, underneath.

Excerpts

The snow, loose upon the windows,
is a mass of seconds. Moments collide,
time migrates. Rockets cough sparks, stars
dust out. The things you say to yourself is glass
on which cold excerpts light.
Learn their silences, what words don’t mean.
Memorize them, hum weather
no one’s witness to.

The Problem with Death

It’s not death because
only you feel your absence

And the birds translate
the broken windows’ whistling.

It’s death because
only you feel your absence

And the birds don’t understand
the broken windows’ song

is just the wind.

Daily Deal

I punch in, “love,”
let Google search for it,
between the lines of cached results
and feel-luckys.
I’ll stay right here, instead,
talk to Dominos,
let Amazon listen in: “this is
who I am, as if
you never new.
Here’s my password, how
can you forget?”