Winter (I Cannot Remember a Single Breakfast)
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.