Spike bit Maxine on the hand last week.
As blood came up in tiny beads, he rubbed
against her legs and purred. Plows excavate
narrow, high-walled tunnels along our streets.
Yesterday, the schoolhouse roof collapsed
under layers of snow. I am learning
to french-braid my hair. Each morning, I gather
and plait these graying strands; each evening
I untwist them. Birch trees hold white ruffs
in their pale arms. While the house of my body
decays, I remodel the other. The kitchen is down
to dust and studs. Avalanche danger is high.
I woke this morning from a dream, thinking:
if no one knows I am lost, how will they ever find me?