The snow falls,
wind causing it to swarm
like locusts or fleas in chaotic panoply
beneath the lone streetlight--
standing upright in 2:30 A.M. light.
the sky is sick with the orange of parking lots.
percocet- and vicodin-addicted housewives sleep.
and yet the sullen flakes of ice and upper-atmospheric
misery
make me love you--
miss you--
all the more.
The cold Hell that starts with September
Marches ever onward through the wastelands of February.
And I miss you all the more.
In my dreams: a knocking upon the door.
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