this winter parabola

: a 12-song cycle in fits & starts

i.

burnt. drift: your sidewise sweet-run glance an elision, illegible. i having problems
reading, you my mark. target. but we, poisson-distributed, a larger map than i

oh myopia can press up against myself, slick splashes of greens & browns &
i can intuit your spaces but help, oh please do, i'm having some problems

not running with scissors, not clothesline-clipping threads & fates on the fly in this
wingèd winter, topographical blindness of season. i need a branching-out, a thaw.

would sing you. (too close to this: singeing my own eyebrows.) lovely, detuned,
this all silver & brushed-up white, transient landmarks of wind become

your cowlicks, the swirl & weave of you unruly. in this i batten down. i brush, i
button. this coat a gift, it remembers days before now, more perspective than i have.