waking—hand
on string—inching a crab
to the surface
waking—hand
on string—inching a crab
to the surface
the moon
and a single headlight
staring
for digesting
everything, a goat is
always best
it’s the unread
stack of books inching upward—
this weight on my heart
we held hands
beneath the table—hot
current hidden
seeing fallow fields
as rumpled—momentary
disarray
one notion,
then a roiling boil
on a cold stove
a scale of heat
in ginger—each taste buried
by the next
today’s
thought—a sieve too loose
to embrace
sensing warmth and—
then suddenly snow—throwing
blankness before us