Soon, the ice comes, the pinch of frozen
particles entering the mind's white slate.
I write my own name in the snow; it says,
Dead Bird. I write yours and it says,
Possible Rope. Your mouth is in my
pocket. A chum salmon crosses
the Skokomish Valley Road and flips
into a drainage ditch. It's perfectly happy
in the small, dark, eelgrass world.
I envy its silvery body, so sure
of its singular want. I write its name
in the snow; it says, Provide Passage.
It says, My World Keeps Opening--