Play hopscotch with squares of sun.
What you appreciate doesn’t have to disappear.
But the narrator has to change, by virtue
of the insistence of a reality.
Dark matter sprays itself across the universe
like a perfume. Seduce it back.
Darkness hopes. Heard it already you say.
Some Decembers have a way of spitting out days
like chewing tobacco.
The air holds its breath when you enter.
Frost snaps its own neck, a violence
so brittle it turns tender.
Think of a kiss. Yes, just like that.
But totally different.