Stars, crisp in the deep plot
pulling off, late snow clouds
clean themselves
The river lets loose the carp,
coughs beneath its frozen part

Drippings on the roof hit the gutter
Ice branches ripped off in wind are waterborne
In the house, a rim of cheese is quiet
There is a chunk of lard to be rendered

I should hang pails on the trees and wait for sugar
I want to tie off the time like a bith cord
chewed broken in a proud woman's teeth
My navel is gone, the moon up,
in a month or two my hands will be in pain

Ever believe there will be someone asking something from her