It is always winter here, and the fear
Is just a crash into being tangled. Gnarled
Sister with your lucious drunkenness,
We are not at the end of something. In
A small town by the river, I see ice, ice,
Winter, ice. The snowy days, the small cars
Suddenly stalling. There is no explaining
The unfaithful. It is a technique to think
Of you, there, in that house, of you thinking
Yourself into a maze on the valley's other
Side. I am not the one doing the judging.
The birds fall out of the trees, and in the freezing
Rain, there is some music. I am feeling around
Here for some smoothness, some respite.
What I find is that I almost hear the undergrowth
Creeping past us.