just like we were going home.

look at us in our boots, my ankles

turned out. we were so drunk that day.

we were on chairs or one another’s backs

on the way to the rain that hid

who lost. we were better

than i thought, we were good.

what’s snow to california kids?

what’s snow to us?

i wish it crushed or muffled more

mistaken sound, or shadows

under eyes with a trying smile

because i was hiding from you.

these blankets will creep into puddles

and stain and flood and rush away

without her making it, even if you learn.

it will happen without my help.

leaves and rugby will return, a century

of acres of our bludgeoned mission.

later i will tell this story about winter grass,

bas coeur (the buried heart), a good view

of icicles, stars and the marking of the sacred

and the rooftops and the scared,

the crying in the bathroom

for the only immortality you and i may share.

be colder. it’s

melting faster than it sticks.