he wakes to numbing ice and fog;
his back is sore, his eyes a-blear –
he scoops out food to give his dog
and wipes the window with a smear
and sees the trees amid the snow,
the world awash in dreary white —
and in his archipelago
of scattered hopes estranged in blight
he’ll heat up coffee on the stove,
the heat will touch his fingers —
as morning thoughts of loathing wrack,
and night’s regretting
lingers
the distant mountain
doesn’t say
but it sees the pain
sometimes the blankness, others
habituated by the cage that winter
has become; but feet get tired,
eyes grow weary, and captains run out
of orders to give to those who lost
confidence that following the plan means
following what’s right to do in the
face of all that bleeds into the snow
surrounding everything; unclarity the word,
misbegotten truths transmitted by text messages and
men drinking coffee by windows next to pens on
half-finished crosswords, and frameworks of
designs awaiting the filling in with colors,
most the time, the bright ones, but
sometimes the blankness
