It’s Christmas eve and the poets are calling for snow.
The weatherman’s predicting heartache.
Me, I’ve got snow in my eyes and a lingering ear infection.
I heard Isabel Allende on the radio today, she was talking about vestigial tremors in the earth in Chile. I thought about how everyone would think they were always dizzy, thought how easily that lent itself to Isabel’s style, up so floating.
If you lived in my pretty how town, I’d see you at the post office and possibly the grocery store (wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes)—how many references can one poem have?
I’m referencing you. Everything is referencing you.
Indonesian money for your collection, the gold-flecked walls I painted in my Midas youth, the baby.
I’ve got snow in my throat and smarting eyes.