Because, shit, it’s too dry to snow but it’s cold
and the crocus is cold under the wind, wind
the cat contemplates through the screen, geese out
on the river now terrorized by swans . . . But nobody’s
bored with this; it’s elegant just being alive in an age
of advertising, not seeing any ads but this weather.
There’s wind on other planets, it’s somehow
interesting to know, and a broken shed latch
swings hard against the plywood door. This brings me
to radio, the little half-lit awarenesses fluttering
inside of each morning, the cat and the cricket she eats,
the man and the woman he needs—one soft
and wholly graspable in front of the other—
until there’s just sky and song in the distance,
no clouds present for breakfast either, just two herons
out near some cattails. You know what I mean?