Untitled (In Winter)

 Last year around this time it was blueish and wet,
 the same forks in the same rough road. The sun 
 is soft now, frugal with light. If I could jar it I might
 grow whole, more humming, more snap! But no,
 the walk home is like crying on a train: all for show.
 All now thinking about suffocating in a cave,
 a drawer, a warm car… must be so miserable
 to seize your own breath, how the tongue can find
 nothing to draw on, nothing moving and supple
 like memory. These leaps are no accident, there are 
 bright months, faint months, lovely months, months pulled taut.
 There are weeds on every corner and flowers
 on every other. Is there a right time to make a friend?
 Some new destination to move slowly toward?
 We watch deciduous trees then become them,
 mistaking empty with sleep and briefly with red.