waiting for spring on an unusually spring-like day in December

living inside the world means noticing when the white van leaves and the brown one returns with the groceries to the backyard is full of brambles a rotting wood fence in farm country in the middle, a huge city. this is any--i hear gun shots. i go ice fishing, snow melts on the island i take my dogs to sniff squirrel tracks and muddy. the world is melting my world is

buckwheat flour ice crust
the glint blue of December
a neighbor shouts, a bus turn, breaks whine, this thin tannic film coats my front tooth,
a grape skin breakfast

tempts me to exacerbate the condition by sipping red wine. window turn gold
as brown van
parts plain and simple
deeper nothing?
the surface melts

my ex-roommate creeps into her ex-backyard to rip smoke
a salt cloud rises black serpent
street.

hello white van! i'm alone with an interior voice,
dogs
I will you to turn right.
a weird person. with one red eye
casts ordinary spells.

poison water, salty with dispersed air
drugs and white flour fog daybreak
empty street except the lone man gazing at the frothy sun
shifting one foot frozen to

my ghost, the winter, from ice cells spring
huddled grass, corner and await
the green van