West, and the light is brighter here
than ever before
even with the cold.

We joked once
about going to California
swimming in the ocean
where the sun is always shining
and the sky has never learned
to close its eyes.

Bones cracked beneath the weight of non-existence,
we knit them together in some kind of
voodoo magic
effigy
spent the night in a cheap hotel
brought home souvenirs:
a tacky mug from a roadside gift shop
a candle in a jar
a book about the Grateful Dead
the taste of fruit
and whiskey.

The woodstove makes a cry like something dying
something screaming
to be born
and outside the fourth floor window,
there’s a blue jay
fat and puffed with self-importance
singing lullabyes to his reflection
in the glass.