write a (sloppy, half-formed if need be) poem every day (or so) during February 2010

The weather station told me
to worry about
the flat roof caving in
and so I am.
The second blizzard
is now intensifying
and I lie in bed,
stony and quiet,
frightened of the wind noises,
balling up the cotton sheets
in my sweaty, panicked fist-balls,
scrutinizing each crack
as to
length, width, depth, position, proximity, pattern.
And was it always there?
Has it gotten worse?
Does it look

A stirring beside me
jars me out of
my fixation
and I think,
Sex just doesn’t even occur to me anymore.

and sometimes,
never at all.
But when I do,
I get woken by a poke
when I roll onto
knitting needles and
follow the yarn
to find
a sweater, and
a hat, and
yellow baby booties
all stitched
in neat tiny rows
in my sleep.

Sometimes
weird guys
have normal names
but guys with
weird names
are rarely normal.

For things thst wash up on
the shore
and other things
that appear when
the snow melts.
Do you want
to meet in secret
sometime?
“There’s nothing like
fresh air
with a rod in your hand.”
See, you hook
this bait
through the eyes.

In the fridge
tacos transpose;
hard tacos sog
and the once
soft tacos crisp
until crunchy.