The sound of elms, of oaks
rustling the molecules leaves
them for austere firs and pines.
The soaking brine of Pacific winter air
sifts over the bumps on my shoulders,
the blackheads on my nose,
the skin on my scrotum
shriveled tight and old.
In the cold there's a humanness to winter
that puts the aching in my knees,
the late February fade, the eldest child
being young right up to the end
of March, when April rolls
open the tomb: light
you never make it to,
never see. Just weep for it.
Wet city benches,
bare branches, shivering
in the thinner air.
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