Like fishing a hair out with dirty fingers
that rub the sclera red, micro veins
branch out from tear-ducts all the same--
a map of a popular city,
somewhere like London.
It’s raining more often.
spread tighter to the leg
like neon eviction notices
tacked to swollen doors.
Like something you’ve never seen before.
Like animals, hunting, but the hind-shimmy
and clawed-pounce are more like snow-skips,
near-silent brushes of white powder
flung from the foot.
Despite the incoming mashed potatoes,
the gravy, the buttered biscuits,
bodies keep fit, so fit
the retainer goes back in, makes a home
of a young mouth grown old.
Like cavities come spring,
there’s incubation. Like all these, but actually
a gesture of performance, coats drawn like curtains
puffed down and bloated, like snowmen
hiding cards played close to the chest.