I don’t take things in
I just let them settle over
like cold, wet rain into wool
the smell finds your nose
and doesn’t leave
even if you aren’t breathing

I don’t see small things
I stumble in an open door
and throw myself around the room
till it’s all over everything–
the wet smell of wool
and pieces of my hands

I look for you in the faces
of those on the streets
and in those eyes are tremors
all the walls fall
down around us
the way that winter falls on rooftops

The creeks in your mind
thaw faster than the world’s.
Your left with tangles
of thorn-berries on the banks,
anticipating dawn
just to escape your dreams

it’s okay to bind
your life up with the berries
As long as you plan to eat them
piles and piles set aside
to make sauces
make the pans blue, all winter