like the frozen ground
in winter. And it shows in
the branches, bare and
splintered. Scattered into

shards all over my back
yard. I only weep now in
icicles. They circle
under my eyes like bicycle

wheels, leaving their tracks on
my face. But I don't feel. My skin's
a suit of armor. I wear it like a farmer
wears his overalls, tightly up against

his *****. And this head is so
heavy. It sits on my neck like a Colorado
Chevy. Some days it drives right off,
like rainwater on the trough.