I could’ve been anyone when they found me, nook infant
ecstatic below your ice age. Look at me. I am gorgeous.

I dreamed there was such a scene as in a kitchen, a vague mother
bent over the sink devastated and safe. I keep waking up

in someone else’s bed: awake inside a wolf’s panting throat
is how I understand hunger. My loneliness is bikeable,

it is as though I have always worn a red cloak in the woods.
Teach me sorry. Teach me the trees. German darkness.

I worship the townhouses I so ritually leave, the waifish necks
of your citizens, and how there is only one word for snow finally.

Lights stay on in too many locked houses. A squanderer
builds his kingdom into the ground. We forget to breathe

when we are instructed breath is continual. What I want touch to be
scatters flies in a neighboring basement, is as bountiful as tweed

in November. Mud husbands me to this terrible ordeal of burial.
But ruins bore me, I hate their gawked failure. Look to your own ugly sky.