moonache

from the gutter and makes itself 

a problem for the storm drain

I get still when it gets quiet

which is how I make a perfect picture;

if nothing changes I can know it fully 

I will sleep swiftly, 

shutdown for the season until

I know how to carry this specific grief

The chickadees get fat because

the cold days are short

and I keep feeding them seeds

A lot of butter in my coffee when 

no one In the house is looking:

poor manners are luxury

I keep the windows open during the squalls

I like to watch things get insane

from the comfort of my sofa

I think once I am different 

everything will be

and then I’m finally myself

It’s still winter

I still slip in goose shit

walking home in the wet

I am running into a new year

with scissors in my fists;