March: Year-day 64

        
                                           
                                           
March: Year-day 64

Little White Lady, the Alloy's cat, found
this morning beneath their bed with three kittens,
so carried Cindy to her happy wits' ends
she phoned the inn to tell me that, and drown
in details my tiredness before the rains
and the sorrowing ice return, our hearts
withering as power lines snap, writhe, spark,
basements fill, graces crack, death comes again.

Crouched here in a county of isolation;
saved from cold by the nature of my work,
linemen in transparent desolation
leave barely a word to this poet clerk
waiting days for a day's inspiration
to mix meows with a wet weather's quirk.

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