The Sequel
What I really remember is the snow
that crunched loudly white while two
by two we emptied milk cartons all over
the carpet where we’d light a blunt auburn
candle each time we’d place a large chicken
clean into the oven and then we’d find ways
to warm ourselves up without speech until the
cold was floating around us and not on top of us
“like reindeer” amid the pink canvases filled
with runny noses we always arrived into the
same dusk-colored place – we’d be circling a
Christmas tree (“Teddy’s got mine!”) with
none other than our dusty favorite, Frosty
the Sasquatch. Thus would begin the alt-
holidays through which we’d droopily
happily endure . . . and now the sun –
shining its headlamp out toward every
slice of existence that isn’t already
pink (concocting brown and also
blueberry and ashen gray but
banana, too!) . . . and the trains
whistling arguments with one
another; non-stop red-faced
outbursts over and under
snow-capped mountains,
beside the exhausted
stumps that stubble
the inclines between
the tunnels;
these parched
remains of an
erstwhile lush
austerity sec-
retly seek –
desperately
seek – a simple
spot in the shade.
Sadly, being but stumps
(and therefore never quite
capable of grasping the fate-
altering tricks known particular-
ly by their neighbors, the rocks),
each, despite a blaze-quenching
desire, meets destiny by coming
to rest beneath a canopy of no-
thing but emboldened stars;
each desiccated stub next
to its very own frozen
