normally invisible, the husk
of vibrancy
has been outed
by recent
snowfall.

if you have a father
he is probably
shoveling
as if it’s the one thing
he has to do
before leaving.

it’s not, but it will do
until he has to shovel
again.

my daughter isn’t married yet
so I can safely say
she isn’t married
to a man
whose job it is
to inspect
poles
for tongues.

ice takes children from the horror film
of an everyday car.

accumulation is the only word
Ohio has
for hollowing.

headlights enter a snowbank
the way my eyes
enter a second
nightmare
wanting to see
what saw me
first.

in any weather
some of us
imagine the homeless
but can’t.