To My Meteorologist
“We’re all liars, our research shows.”

In the heart’s filthy season a very wet breed of snowflake is likely going in her pocket for change, finding a bullet from her knee, from her chair leg, from the window. An elevated leg like an elevated habit- there’s a lounge for that now “(because I say so).” I’m sovereign to a fault, watching a sunset full of credit. Wanting to be in like pregnancy and penguins, but devotedly viaduct in a nervy snow.