ode to winter
I stop the gaps between the silences and the murmurs of another room – a baritone
talks to himself or a sleeping partner stirred between the sheets. Outside, the crystal street tree-
lined birds discuss the seasons So long to spring.
Since I started to think this, a man with nothing else to do is out with his chainsaw and the whole fucking thing’s gone.
Let me just say this:
Fuck suburbia. Fuck America’s Cup. And fuck odes to winter.