Working Day
How near nothing something comes.
It is saliva laced on lips, a litany
of winter trees holding the sky in.
We rise automatically, fondle the heat
on, hear our newspaper words fill the walls
like stale air as we axe frost
from the windshield of moon
warming up in the driveway.
Outside, the wind rears up on hind legs
and screams. But there is nothing,
no scratches, no blood, no dried spit
of hieroglyhics languaging the glass,
no ancient stories to base our deaths on,
to tell the grand kids when they're too old
to care, too young to see between the stars.
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