Snowfall Throws its Pretty Noise upon a Weary Sameness
The debt collection mail is piling. You keep trying
not to smoke, or smoke again, or smoke so much,
but fuck it. The grandfather is dying. It’s obvious how
the planet has been inching for a century toward this.
On the phone your mother’s voice assumes a new
alien edge. As if through the blades of a fan, it asks
the usual, “How’s my baby doing”. This distracts.
You’re a digression in the day’s essay pushing her to
its imminent stop. She’s taking a week off from work,
she says. You don’t believe the brackets framing her
assurance in this moment. Someone should acknowledge
how impossible this notion of doing is becoming,
but it won’t be you, who’d do nearly anything not
to hear her speak inside a wind at [okay]’s precipice.
Her words and yours just blow a commotion of iotas
massing embankments you can neither incinerate nor eat.