There were eyes in the mountains, so I kept
my secrets close, but that’s no way to live
or love. With mountains out of view, I slept,
woke, and collected my dreams in a sieve;
The sand went to my liver, the gold to
my lover, and I exhaled black and mint.
The living poison sand gave me the flu
and even loving took a blacker tint,
hinting bile and chicken pot pie. Bare feet
stuck to snowy, cold, stones between houses,
neither mine, so my body shoveled sheets
of ice to earn my keep, and it douses
now for some albedo through the window,
somehow expecting warmth out of the snow.