Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Turns out I looked all wrong. That little hill is a process
where routine trees happen. They’re obvious
without their leaves but go with a certainty
that can only be called
denial. And those snowy rooftops,
having been placed just so, conjure a tale
of someone gone missing. Look carefully
at the trail that leads out of town.
There is a sentence there, between the holes,
ready to convince you into feeling something
Wednesday, January 15, 2014