Boiling water in a scorched can,
first bubbles breaking
where an ash floats
fracturing the surface. Soon I’ll steep
and pour black tea, savoring
this moment of attention, the cabin
creaking refusal to gusting winds
that have all night grasped
at everything. Some days
I’m as inarticulate and restless,
as needing to be held.
Days when I’m warmer
chopping wood than burning it,
sourdough collapsing in its crock,
wood stove ticking like a sprung clock,
overloaded. Like some Crusoe finding
only his own foot prints in snow
and following them, I know I am living
off my life the way the freezing
survive for a time. Cold
driving me into the dazed
blur of other bodies, the fleeting
warmth of fever as I strip
my clothes, stumbling
through blizzard, the exposure
of letting go.