trees, sounds of children crafting angels in the snow.
The wind cries Mary or something else I can't
explain making a nuisance of itself in the frigid air.
Toothbrush handle pared to a point, rubberband
at the ready stretched to grace the frail shapely neck.
Ordinary kitchens replete with instruments of evisceration
and derangement necessary to prepare the most placid meal.
Feral and shivering, our hearts slip across the border from
light into the comforting myth of infinite darkness.
