There is a moon on my back
down the rising line of street.
A cold night-throb echoes.

I can't get a job to stick
and the web of days
is more gap than thread.

The gaps are quiet, though.
Fourth story wind carves through
the screen like an axe.

The Monday girl is gliding
under the brown ice clouds.
Things aren't very real anymore.

I walk in rooms of winter,
looking for a handhold.
I blame myself for this

depression, whose greasy claws
fill my mouth. Whole childhoods
of rain are slanting to snow.