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first frost came too soon.

i slept in, showered, sexed, rolled over and up

to scrape ice off the windshield while the engine warmed.

wondering what was left of the garden.

split tomatoes had spilt their seeds

on soil crust glistening with last breath.

cold fingers fumble to collect

and run under water to thaw.

leaves suspended

slowly turn to match the color they saw last

like the inside of an eyelid.

they die in dreams.

frost comes only late at night when no one’s watching.

squash vines become ghosts, uncurl their grasps.

flowers wilt and whirl sideways to expose underbellies.

i try to transplant into little pots placed on windowsills

south facing symbols of cause lost.

the compost is full. it’s my fault.

i thought I could hide the carcasses there. I’m told

it’s better to uproot and leave over where they lie.

light on in the attic. i like

the idea of coming home to something.

not quite this.

listen

to trains gnash their teeth in the night and scream to stop.

sounds made crisp by the cold.

hiss of heavy breathing. labor pains.

like a playground tire swing

chains wrapped tight, round and round til they choke up.

clenched fists, little knuckles white with anticipation.

waiting to exhale.