Frostbite

(Thank y'all for comin' by lately. Here's a free poem)

Under the aquarium of the sky where the whales bump their faces on glass walls, snow buries the stove of my youth and makes a new hill, a lump like a shot elephant that the men in black jackets can't dig out. And the funeral flowers pale in the unlamented December. Your voice is cough syrup to me because you are still in the place I left, and when you breathe out I can smell that you recently inhaled in a room I only

half-remember. I could...