Layer upon layer takes ages to leave
the house and depending how far ages to return.
Lights on, lights in the bathroom and kitchen
have blown, using a lamp to chop garlic
all these rows and rows of rooms
are not prisons but are almost prisons,
imagine if we were little animals
how obidient we are, clothes and feed,
wash and clean; lock ourselves up at night.
Out riding you see a carpark filled with mounds of snow
all dust and dirt covered, tattooed with footprints
you think nothing of them until you’re home
and you’ve transported the image back a long way
that very image out of all the others,
some you’ve already forgotten out riding
you think about mounds of snow proprioceptive feedback
over a cup of coffee in front of a radiator.
And then you think about snow mounds
in context of the solar system and the milky way
and you want snow mounds to be more than they are:
a fried icecream graveyard, mountains for squirrels
a hideout for bankrobbers and their children
and the people who wish this bitter winter
and all the coughing would last forever
because may be we are snow mounds piled up in carparks
and when our friends die they defrost and melt
in the shape of tears, or when we play or work real hard
we get hot and the ones who dont pull through
come out as sweat – our bodies like blow torches.