you don't want to ***** this newness with yourself you lie half-woken, a story slipping in vomitous avalanche of nowness, mourning on a stack of crumpled sheets
night-stuck whiteness, imagining all the games you might play if you were to forget your age: shaking all that powder into the cracks of your muscadet dry skin notes of apples, saline
weather-woman, with her green screen showmanship had not portended this outcome this modern diviner you hold in high esteem
you always liked the way magicians seemed to make something out of nothing (a rabbit from a tophat gap, coins out of earlobes) and winter is sort of like that, too you wake up and everything is blanketed, you don't remember the process, how it all got there a snowshoe hare leaps like she formed right on the snowbank paper that came pre-sketched free of gestation
beneath the avalanche muscadet turns to claret but we can't see it happening for miles and miles a blank page what dies under the heel of perfection a magician never reveals his secrets