The reflected sun
is a tiny flame drilling
through sidewalk ice.
The reflected sun
is a tiny flame drilling
through sidewalk ice.
Streetlights throw shadows
like petals from my feet—I
walk home in flower.
What I thought was fog
was snow-crowded air falling,
burying my tracks.
That one thousand mile
trip starting with one step can
end anytime now.
Eyes open, waiting
for the alarm’s sting to spur
me to move again.
A clementine sits
on the table’s horizon
before sunrise.
Passing windows lit
against the darkness—TVs
on in every one.
The storefront window
throws green light onto the snow
and my eyes see grass.
Broken icicles
scattered over the steps as if
the dragon fled.
When the heater stops
blowing, I hear my breathing
warming the silence.