in december

the days, they’re shortest,
skinless, surrounding the house,
drift wood barricade.

home at the end

of winter. there’s a drafty passion in my ear. on the hairs of my neck. the weekdays and workends of reckless ownership wedging like moss in the joints of the twentieth century. built of chair web and laundry. hefty bags. bottled water. sink full of dishes with egg dried on. comfortable in this obscurity     i pound fists to table   say it’s always the last piece that completes the puzzle      always      cold as a megalith      aligned north       coincidentally marking equinox     half buried in antique stumbling    i make every day make sense   and i make my pencils sharp   make phone calls     make the calendar a battleplan        make up my mind a hundred times    and a hundred times not admitting it’s the puzzle   that completes the last piece         at the end of winter        in the sun’s ungraciousness       my mouthful of acts condensed on glass            counting consequences like beads


among fences and heaped mortgages,
we hinder ourselves, immaterial borrowers,
siphoning bandwidth, riding orange lawn tractors,
nursing craft beers and distant smiles, shaking

here it rips in us, the close edge of commerce,
feeding desires and sleepy goals, paycheck to paycheck,
stringing us to emerge blue and above subsistence,
a fat suburban moon, removed and successful.

on new year’s day

153 miles uncoil, thick
and shunted, heaved between
the first cup of wake-up
and the salvaged green door
fitted to the farm house

it’s cold here
it’s cold there

nothing changes,
the endless flat sky,
mill of suns and
thinning mercury,
seeds counted until spring
and planting plans,
to plow and sow,
to buy a hog

and the shadow of the barn,
solid as night
and just as punctured,
pushes it all down