There’s a blizzard.
One far away light.
I can barely see it,
But I know it isn’t home.
The path isn’t just obstructed
by the blizzard; the snow.
Home has moved
Somewhere we didn’t think
I would ever have to know
so I never bothered learning.
And I am looking, now,
though the snow.
I turn to white.
I turn to white in the white snow.
You hate me smoking
so you shot me a look
as hot as the cigarette’s cherry.
But all the punk singers
that you like sound just
like the Marlboro Man,
and their guitarist’s lips
drip black tobacco.
Our mornings remind me of this one scene in romantic movies.
This particular scene so many of them share;
with white sheets, rays of bright light,
darting close ups of sleep-webbed eyes, and clean skin.
In the films the girls are always pretty made up. And the men.
But when it’s us, I can see ginger hairs in your dark beard
and you can see each freckle on my face, naked.
And the cat scratches her shoulder, loose fur bursting out into the sunlight.
Twist three things;
Make them words or
Make them wrists.
Back home I sleep on Egyptian linen;
One thousand thread count.
My mother cooks tacos;
It’s the rule of the gods that some men
While others chew.
Sing, O goddess, the wrath of Peleus’ son Achilles, whose anger brought pains a thousandfold upon the Achaeans.