a walk home, i live briefly in the basement of a long day
shuffling in navy black boots,
in crow feet’s not properly sealed,
the madness of wet socks.
the wool yarn humming,
becomes a conductor, a sidewalk
hot on the trail of desk lamps,
an explosion of neon ash
and snow is falling again.
across the wintery desert,
of one of jupiter’s tagalong moons.
the madness of wet socks,
the damp braided cable tounge
begins the humming of me
dry, brittle me north-facing the dusk
disappears despite a 100 steps taken towards,
a dawn suddenly died before dawn.
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