Trying to Make the Work Day Come to Its End
In this cold, the roof across the street shivers
with red, the pulse of the sun
left after gray has knuckled.
Dun flakes of dust
on the creamy sill, long-caked coffee nearby,
bassoon on the radio,
its note a dream of yellow throat—
blue song deep for a day
when the cindered roads crystal and fail
as they curve black to carve
the hill, bare roots burnt violet, ripe
for snow mold, ravaging like lichen’s
dream of the verdant—
sustaining, addictive, and green.