Walk

(an imitation poem)

Wait until the house is silent before leaving. In the cold, becomes part of
your bones. Touch, branches like limbs. How long until we cry. How long
until we are touched. What is cold and what is warm in the forest. It means
nothing. Salty rising anxiety, a silent phone, plaid flannel. And know when you
return, know there is no one waiting.

what has been done

late at night i see
the spiders crawling on the windowframe
when i moved in
covered with snow
the nights long
and with the oncoming storm
and pumpkin everything
i wonder
what has been done