winter isn't quilts and netflix.
it's for cabins made of vertical bookshelves,
spines separating you from the wolves.
some of us will walk with hands to bare air,
while the rest of us fill our pockets to keep
the quarters from rousing the homeless.
i'm going to send a letter to my childhood address.
not a poem. not here, nor for you.
these film strips don't add up to a story.
much less than snow adds up to a man.
even less than light adds up to a body.
take mine, in a fit of dancing gold and godly
i'll smile if it means you think i mean it,
for a moment i thought you think about me,
this sign, reaching out in straight lines,
cutting corners, breaking rules and rulers,
don't smile because i'll think you mean it,
don't clean your name like a plate about to drop,
stop caring what words can be pulled from losses,
let silence eat silence for breakfast,
buy a bullet, call a cab, and knock on pity's door,
let 'em know who's who in town now.