Winter is always hard.
Money runs out and people run out and
we all seem to wilt just a little bit until
spring sneezes us back out
into the sunshine.
We slump through Novembruary,
barely paying any attention to the holidays
except our drunk uncle makes us uncomfortable
and we swore we'd ward off another ten pounds.
I want to leave town.
It's time to go weast and leave behind last summer,
as if it were possible
to forget how cinder block holds heat.
The river pulls back the
mittened and scarved undead:
This town is a gravity well.
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