when the winter comes
and the roof doesn't always lead...
bring me the news,
because I am getting sick
on the nose.
better than falling
asleep on the porch,
years ago,
and years now,
sending bells
where once was piano, too.
text me a secret.
and make it mundaine
and mathematical.
we are not possible,
tonight or ever,
and my fingers agree
with your mother's
bicycle ribs.
let's get small
and hide behind
the Montreal package store
where yelling occurs
in a ditch with graffiti.