we were talking about ice, how long the people made do without it. i was finally reading the famous chapter of the famous book where ice is novelty treasure the village comes to see
they think it is a diamond, or boiling
scalding is the closest feeling

ice cutting festival in the adirondacks. ice castles in minnesota. trapping heat
inside the burn

in the public bathroom a poster says to call homeland security if you find are being controlled. a shadow of a man looming grey into a grey room where a grey girl sits crumpled

ice forms stunning spears from the roof where good smoke plumes, melts into a pool, hardens back over. the agent slips on it, the people repost, more traps from
more pools 

we were talking about ICE when we saw the cops with faces in the alley. the one i spoke to seemed like he was crying, but maybe just dead depressed or tired from 
his screen

to the east and to the west the neighborhood blocks eventually touch water.
i want to smell truth like someone cooking in a house i am outside,
like freezer burn before the door is opened. i follow the scent inside, want not
to have a reason to, just hunger's closest
feeling

muslin curtains leaking warmth. little sketches of horizons stacked as drafts,
or tucked in lacy nets like asian pears towered in a crate outside the diorama
winter village shop laid split across the sidewalk.
I drive by and wonder if anyone will put it back together. 
maybe wood glue, with clamps 

one could build a moat, a snow cave, a bassinet.
one could hoard nightwear, like I do.
pilling flannel lily of the valley. big snoopy t-shirt that says score

the wood chip child wants to know which is better: with or apart.
separate safe, or what the teacher said,
that someone else’s problem
is your own

i want the truth to smell like rotting flowers ready to return.
to trace itself an arrow  losing its tail along the way
lands the pressure point of worry lines slack
between telephone poles. window to window.
squint across. you might not need to furrow 
to see

Summing Up

You're a shut in if you're at home

and you can't be sold things

even though you are quietly

rebuilding your jeans collection

online, but it's apparently a

problem to take your drinking 

to its natural conclusion first

and pick up the pieces later

and discover that picking up

the pieces is discovering so

many worlds can exist for 

you at home if you just open

your mouth and let them out.

And once you realise that is

not a problem you realise the

real problem is you go out

once in a blue moon and your

immediate response to everything

going on is to be surprised by it

and wanting to know more is

a net result of surprise not

curiosity. Just holding 

that curiosity and welding it to 

whatever it is you're now getting 

up to at home, gosh there is 

so much there for us in here

if we just leave our coats

on the hook.

Snow Removal

Snow Removal 

Martin doesn't drop the snow heaped in the bucket of his front loader. Five minutes 

now, hovering, while the diesel rumbles. “What the hell, Martin!” That's Dwayne, 

his breath a cloud puff in front of his face. The crew has been hauling snow from 

streets for days. Dumping it all on a stretch of Bay St. -- a whole block, avalanched 

with dirty snow. “Drop it, man!” Dwayne, arms out, dumbfounded. Last night, 

standing in the hallway of his building, Martin's brother called. “Dude. Travis’s dead.” 

In the kitchen, Martin told his wife who'd said, “Martin, you never even liked Travis.” 

Martin backs up the front loader, spins it around, and picks up speed. The bucket 

wobbles out in front like a child holding a bowl. When he gets to the middle 

of 3rd and Court, he drops the whole grayed mass. Every car and truck creeps 

their way around it.