overwintering

Like summer fruit in December,
this thing rots too fast. The catch
of breath as foot finds ice where
hard ground should be and slides,
momentarily reoriented to mortality.
“I could have died,” crosses mind
daily, so how can anything blossom
during the overwintering? I continue
to musify, attributing every thought
to an other. Heartbreak is good for
the writing career, so I wring wrists
over tomorrow’s catch. The oceans
have been depleted; rumors of more
fish disproven with evidence that
the sea has dried up completely.
Silver iodide seeds clouds over
Sierras so straights can recreate
holiday proposals and whatnot.
Take dog and car and kids and go,
just go, wistful interruption-clips to
streams-of-unconscious say. My
longing for companionship gets in
the way of companionship. Yet in the
dark sits my secret, unspoken:
heavy void beckons.
I know what Ben Gibbard didn’t:
you won’t follow me there. Nights
like these, what better way to go
at it than alone?