Frost everywhere this morning; those roses never knew when to quit.
Look at their withered petals, like peering into
my own face.
I’m inside this watering can with the spiders,
the deadness. As if something’s
coiled inside me.
When I close my eyes, I’m dancing.
Faucet handle screeches, and a horn
—- jumps!
in my ear
like Livery Stable Blues.
Old Victrola,
a slice of burnt cherry pie.
We’re young such a short time.
Old until we die.
Three months until spring.
My last, I think.
