the tin roof drum
as the snow turns to rain
a crescendo

sparse public forest
with snow gutters leading me
meandering

under the covers
breathing hard through their voice
hotel lovers

here the road, your face
with the window reflecting
your face, and the road

today the snow
sounds the same way
i remember it

low tide treasures:
the soft, slick, unearthly lure
of your dark tang

ice shells of puddles
etched with raven feathers,
cold in the moonlight