Figures walking toward you in the fog look like they are here to conduct an

intervention.
Trees (birch – poplar – ash?), noughts and crosses of dusty dusk, stacked up (thank

you Klimt, for birches as a forest of upright, shed-snake-skins untwisting themselves

to form omens of indifference.)
Shadows flat as marks, and/or newly minted coins (as matter-of-fact, as cheaper-

looking than the coins of your childhood, but still worth collecting, keeping

and trading.) 
Charcoal is 100 percent animal sleep (charcoal never sleeps); it does not hesitate

and neither should you.
Winter splits out of that seasoned wood when your hatchet bites it in half without

looking.
Thursday: mountains around here are hollow, skies are made of burnished wood

wallpaper; ergo, everything has false grain (but that is still a comfort around here.)
When children come home, the day starts all over again, everything’s crystalline,

which is to say slow, eventual, willing to separate in increasingly complex ways …

(Turn the heat on.)