it's cold any way you feel winter; thick bones
grow creamy after awhile, and small bays that
lean in and out for the room of small animals
are quiet. my thimble cactus grows small, satin
flowers, and I start believing in heat, in multiple
heavens like Susie Salmon—one that smells like
my mother’s sunflower shampoo, one that is full
of woven things to see, one full of woven things
to weave. winter means: sleeping in the car with
yoni, thickness, trying to figure out glitter, or any
thing small, or how to make words into crystals,
cut into ovals, then into slices of ovals, lemon and
light pink in the half light of my room. winter
always rhymed with you; but you were made for
small airplanes, outlines of skinny hips of rivers,
chartreuse land plots—outlines but never full.
you did not know the degree of sweaters: the
warmth, or the coat of succulents, or the wrap
of sound only a train can make for a whole
town in coming by and retreat.
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