After the melt, winter, dull
with Novocaine, lacking a proper taste
of death, waits in patient homage
for Nature to resume her pleasantries.
The insufficient poison of ice,
is swallowed-up in mushroom sky,
and leaves behind a chamois world,
a limb-strewn, cardboardy puzzle,
dirty as a pillowcase. She paces,
obtuse, in the squalor of good
intentions, scotch-taped, ephemeral,
in an arborglyph of days.
Would you like me to read it to you?