*
The dead the snow hold back
you rub between your hands
--it’s glare you’re after
before it disappears
the way a cemetery fence
is painted, then overflows
--to get more white
you let this bathroom sink
open up in water
wrap the soap over and over
in that same wood
still burning --how else
can you bathe, the door
closed and follows you out
chased by flowers and the cold.
apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3