math

in my basement suite
adding possibilities
on an abucus

move 2 left
slide 3 back

soft in white

front pocket

ripping seams in

a tired metaphor

i’ll sew a pocket with

fishing line, a needle

made of bone

lined with detritus

I will place for hardening

an image of my lover

handfuls of leaves

.

. . .

. sandals with sand

that familiar bend

in the serpentine

where my house

slid into black silt

march

I promised myself in the thaw

that I would sip more tea,

take a few hours for china

and travel in the elliptic swirl of

steam

off the lip of a tiny cup

the days are warmer now

but this is no time for moccasins

the snow grows heavy and

slides from the roof

in avalanche proportions

sleep less

think more

in the blindness of white light

reflected off snowy banks

blue melts from iris

and there is no more walking on water