The curious nature
of corduroy
never bothered her
till now. How many pairs
of jeans made with the stuff
has she worn?

Is she the only one
left? Freeze.

Thaw. Freeze. Runnels
of melting snow and ice
spread across the sidewalk.
Then they freeze
in anticipation of a Christmas
wintry mix

to polish off
a perfectly disastrous year.

Lock everything down—
evergreen wreaths, mobile home bumpers,
dumpster lids, the feathers
protecting her heart—
when high winds and a plummeting air temperature return the next morning.

Don’t talk about the weather
behind its back.
Talk to it in a slow,
sustained rhotic accent
that gives away
nothing, means

what you want
it to mean.

The color of the fibers
here do not match
the colour of the fibres
across the ocean,
or even across
the northern border.

Mr. Leonard Cohen once said,
“There are no dirty words.”

He and Prince and
Mr. Bowie
made brilliant escapes
in the nick
of time. She keeps looking
north without an offing.