For me

split the road’s fast jetties, Someone dies.

Each eye puts on a new shoe. Open. Closed.

Theatrical. A combination

we can’t see anymore, we wax on, corpuscles splitting through roads

then arch-­‐-­‐sideways mélange.

The roads deepen in their retreat, fast jetties

of winsome. Ah bicycle. did you need a soul for that?

I keep, elementally, by my side, a telescope. This may hurt you some.

These forecasts

of certain maelstroms, more amenable than others.

Nine inches of snow already