Already, it is December. How does this happen? The trees
know some things -- things we do not know. Already, my hair
has grown long, and dark. The windows fill with gray
clouds, the absence of missed things, like two hundred
versions of your childhood-self pressing the glass cold.

I'm never paying attention.
Instead, I'm following 8 red winter coats
punctuating the snowscape.
From here, their sojourn feels
impossibly slow.