sitting in a cold house
staring at my empty wood stove
thinking it’s my fault
that she went cold
and with the lights out it’s brighter
outside than in
the snow reflecting the clouds
reflecting the lights from town
a house is a strange husk
home to so many others
like the 18 white-footed mice
I’ve slaughtered this winter
or my dreams which I no longer recall
but which I presume to exist
like the giant rat snake whose skin
I found in the ceiling
my cold wooden house sits up
a cold mountain hollow
and so I am both high and deep
in the country