a week ago I wasn't wearing a coat
the skating rink downtown was a lake

a couple had jumped from land
to the bench seat in its midst

to hold hands and watch the ripples
made by the warm breath of whomever

and now this platinum outside
the best part, the odd jacket I dragged on

to a discovery of paper scraps in its pockets
leading to a beach where

moxie is the drink
of people who live just off

route 95 where the rooster's complaint
opens poetry

I hear a bell - its whip o wills
will wake me in the morning

this snow bends over
my hushed voice, the bones of birds

and hollow buttons
an orange moon hanging close

I so often dream of you
there's probably no time left



�2007 by PJ Nights