All the problems become snow:

it is not the drinking or the distance,

it is the snow.

It has been falling for months,

gets ploughed to the side of the road,

envelops the short Christmas days;

her long nipples have been sheathed by it,

the pond is useless,

layered with this froth. The snow

has hidden the solutions,

the consequences, the map.

And in the dark it settles white,

blows thin onto the porch

where she sat for the sun.

 

First published First published in The Golden Hour Book (2007) and revised for Tontine, 2009.