11/22/2016

if when the snow comes
I go offline and my
boots are no longer by
the door, if the door
itself is hanging slack- mouthed
in a stiletto breeze
and all the terrible whisperers
have come to roost in my closets
If they say he seemed so
ordinary I don't know what
got into him, if they find
my silouttte staring at
flowerless graves, if all the
fallen leaves follow me
into the hills like sycophants
if I drift like a derelict
across burnt bridges with a
fedora pulled low over my shadow
oh, and the icicles multiply
over my face like the whiskers
of an old man too weary to shave
kiss me, heart and save me
from this fate. let me
back in the door.