Day Thirty-Six
HER: “I like your house.”
(We were mistaken for you.)
US: “Thanks very much.”
Day Thirty-Five
Shrill creaking hinges—
the wind is at the front door
and it wants inside.
Day Thirty-Four
That cat’s eyes look high.
Look at him—that cat would bark
if only he could.
Day Thirty-Three
Sleet is not dead rain,
dead of exposure, falling
frozen with rigor.
Day Thirty-Two
Loud taqueria,
winter night; I can’t hear you
over this brisket.
Day Thirty-One
Little black birds fly
onto the eaves, little leaves
falling in reverse.
Day Thirty
Chicago’s orange
patterns of light dye the clouds
we pass through to land.
Day Twenty-Nine
Watch the years fall off
the black Lab in the white snow
ere her sight dwindles.
Day Twenty-Eight
Bobcat at the beach,
washed by a green winter’s surf,
half buried in sand.
Day Twenty-Seven
Leave this Southern cold
for northern woods and clean snow—
fly into Christmas Eve.
