this winter parabola 09

ix.

blasted apples on the trees, a premature frost: come back into the pub what's
warm & dry, why ye standing lookin' out like that, you make me nervous is what.

just so. another round for us as can't sleep tonight. hot buttered rum, rolls, it's
the heat that matters & these socks darned how-many times, can't let 'em go

just yet. a tendency to recursion gets into the weave & warps like smoke, dreams
olfactory sharp & immediate: edge of your sweat, cigarettes, warm-wet wool

steaming fireside. always the things at the edge of memory drifting off into
our whiskey-lit dreams, shoes left out on the stoop & it's beginning to snow, books

overdue back in town. the feeling that this story's been told before, that this
cabin, prepositional, indeterminate, might have once been else's, as you.