we got a smattering of snow
locked onto the slow sky
like the dark past weighing down passer-bys –
each opaque window: a rabbit's eye.
rubble steps for some cellar memory.
every minute of that sleep the party
stole. and the necks lost in cables print
the way we walk into the city grind.
our airports fell out of touch – bird heaps
call for ex-wives to turn around. for us to
point at the lousy cop out – such a disappointment,
where the warm grey bodies meet the end
of the month. "I laugh a lot," says
the woman on the tv show. but the loneliness
on the beach is what was in that dead channel.