contemplate the weight of january
waters, heavy as wet wool on
thin shoulders, a blanket to smother

midnights of hot inquiet. the sound
of broken four o’clocks
scatters like buckshot in fragile

february air, echo of crying
arterial rapids over
cold Virginia stone. this is

not a time for love songs.
custom carries you
home each night to fall

asleep fully clothed,
wander dreaming through
canals of empty

mystery, their brambled
banks sharp as razorwire. if
you’re searching

for a hand to hold
in the muddy afters, mine
is small but here.