when you send a text

for her awakening breath

yet she may not wake

with a small sprinkle

I think only of you, Babes

who would never spill

I’m sorry I don’t ski moguls

or that the dogs weren’t enough

or that your hope for her

is greater than your exit

I’m sorry that my girl won’t be there

hands upon hands, in clay, spinning

the last bit of this stupid dream I had

that we were friends

and that I didn’t hear it from you

and that I had to agree with

the professional video

and not my heart

and that I’ll love you

more than you will ever know

even if I can’t see your face

peeking your perfect smile in my doorway

I’m sorry it is what it is

and I can’t put back

or glue with raku fire

the friendship I thought we had.

it’s so hot you’d think it’s summer

yet we have a reservation

so we soak up these snowless moments

trying to find glitter sparkling on pines

after a late-night flurry of fruitless hope

and wind our way over logs and rocks

exposed way too late this winter

as harsh on our newly-waxed skis

as the climate-changing burn of sun

and it’s January. New Year.

new chances to fill our future

with darkening doom scrolling

because we can’t find any tracks with no snow.

maybe I’ll write in 2026

maybe someone will read the words

and feel in the marrow of their bones

how hard it is to be human

and no one else

not AI not Shakespeare not Google

will fill my (your) minds

with inglorious bullshit

and we’ll videotape the Kentucky

winter sunset

and see a white-tailed deer before

we see a singular horse

(and the fences are brown, not white)

and everyone will stop talking

while we film

and you will see

that winter

is

beautiful

maybe we could make

being human a ritual

this simple capture

if an inglorious moment

and a deer you’ll miss if you don’t focus

and the sun

that will still rise tomorrow

maybe the new year will bring

a gavel on this oligarchy

ringing through 250 years

of patriarchal dominance

and we could just listen to

WOMEN?

dear stranger who

intentionally ran the red light

and first almost hit a car

then almost hit this cyclist:

a curse upon you and your

raised middle finger.

my cusses were valid;

your intersection rape was not.

you are not the rainbow

but the clouds

that produce no rain

on a hot August night

and the sun will strike you down.