the way my hands are
red and cracked
and my kindling fingers
can move in rhythms
precise enough to make
the way the skin is
an organ
and he talked
about stapling it
together to hold
in his bone and
the way she loves
the cold, how
you can feel it
inside your throat
and lungs
freeze eye lashes,
tears, nose hairs
hear the house crack
as trees crack
the white trees bare
and alone, train
tracks for
frozen ghosts
to ride
the way the
gray smoke crawls
along the table
towards the laughter
floats off the table
alive like a ghost
in smoke wave

snow blind
into the sun bleached
airport snow covered
an old woman bundled
in pink
a dog with a sweater
on in front of her
she tells me
“I wish I didn’t
have to lie down
during the day”
take cod liver oil
I tell her
the trees are art
the sky blue
torn apart by
a plane engine
and single caw
of a crow
seeking something
the old lady
walking slowly on
the hill
sickness and heat
stopping me
in prayer to the
art forest
paintings on each
brilliance of sticks
standing bare and
look up
at the
wilted brown leaves
still hanging
on, gently rattling
a dream of
snowy crossroads
a black Indian braid
flying down the hill