I know no snow

though snow spread like a plate on grass. The signs proper force the morning out of its hitch , which is why I am to you like a rummage of geese. They move through the time like a radio. I wheeze like a radio into your ear. The white bolt undoes a toad in its hole, our tank cracks, and geese are in store on the corners. Here here, Denver. Hi ways.

I went to be

snow so spent. An evening in the valley. Saw stags small as black flowers shaking their hair at the world. Portraits of a small hole, you said, and I followed through with it. No need to stop. We talked closely entire afternoons.

Not gestures

per say. The activities women do in the wash. Dust coloring the tips of their noses. They are fair enough, light, we sign smoke and we no go and we wrench in any direction as if it pinches.

On my mind, we

are behind ourselves; the words are turtley things. I've made all sorts. Trade my breasts for moths and tossings in. Same with timbre, the born air, the blowing of french horns through the veranda. Behind us. Look.

We refuse

soon enough the rains, snow-smelling bedsheets, castings off due the height of our windows. I made tea. I look like tea in front of people.