I know enough to know it’s not spring until I see the snowfence coming down. Today, between the highway and the lake orange-vested men
On the blue rim of porcelain plovers run up and back to the water’s edge, the same path to flee as to return, Ryokan
The cracked teacup nested in the pool of rain, gold leaves wicked on its side and across the sodden grass like so many gloves.
Cold pink cloud drifts above, eyelet-laced at the edges, flattens, an amoeba spewing pink. Slouched in a plastic chair slicked with ice, I sit