begin by sewing rough round
patches on a coat. last winter
you filled with vows to never
again see the snow, the lurid
death of the north.

today i am struck by the rough
noise of your sleep, how dreamless
and seamed the world becomes;
i watch taped game shows
and suddenly your sitting,

sipping your coffee takes on the
appearance of the avatar, a wolf
in wolf's clothing, so to speak,
because, without fail, you
are not even real, not even here.

put water in water and it all
becomes clear—the clean taste
of snow, noiseless death of tartar,
a brush which turns teeth
seamlessly white over and over.

our world begins like this.

begin by sewing rough round
patches on a coat. last winter
you filled with vows to never
again see the snow, the lurid
death of the north.

today i am struck by the rough
noise of your sleep, how dreamless
and seamed the world becomes;
i watch taped game shows
and suddenly your sitting,

sipping your coffee takes on the
appearance of the avatar, a wolf
in wolf's clothing, so to speak,
because, without fail, you
are not even real, not even here.

put water in water and it all
becomes clear—the clean taste
of snow, noiseless death of tartar,
a brush which turns teeth
seamlessly white over and over.

our world begins like this.

the lies you do not speak
are white, falling like ash.
unspoken lies like
our window sills running down
between cedars, the log

which fills with embodied angels
who, left to replace the sun for a
time, begin to cry. your
tears flood with angels, with frost,
with not sound,

not empty pans, or coats whose
patches can curve us again
into our worn bodies. somnambular
we watch the wilting of our earth
again and the taut bones

of squirrels striding beneath
their fur. the purposelessness
that drives us to watch without acting.
and you say again that you will not
stay here like this, living like this.

i collapse into the soft sound of agreement.