The Dead of Winter

I walk out into 

the dark and bitter

the hidden 

sun exhales 

as we spin into 

its orange hair

sagging houses 

are strewn 

across the hills 

blue winds

are winding

through the trees.

At the car door

fumbling for keys

a single chime

of rusted metal 

hanging off 

an abandoned 

clothes line

sounds a note

that holds itself 

like the body 

of a brown bird

suspended 

in the ice

beneath the lake.

My dead 

Aunt Mitza
laughs as her 
96 hatchback

coughs itself

to life.

I wonder 

what's become

of her tiny 

lifeless body

as I drive north 

through eternity
along the
frozen hills

of Fontenelle Blvd.

The car is creaking
and cracking

in the cold

as the giant 

clock 

of the universe 

slowly turns 

its violent gears.





















































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