It’s like how they say the snow makes the outside feel like one big room
and a cross-eyed black kitten lets you open your door, purring in your ear

And it’s also like I’m clogging something of murders elided in the canopy
where you’re pushing ghosts into my hands, dangling sibilant over black ice

Oh, I defend; I’m pre-paid—Like,
it’s 3-ish, here, palpitating tinsnips;
I got blisters on my fingers, bitch!

I couldn’t be any nicer, these crowds were licking away
my shadow drained strewn along your incredible mouth

It’s like the snow, it clots where you shoveled once you could stand
and grows weird pegs you never have the strength to climb