Flashed in and feeding
                                thundersnow appends the street.
Dependent on diction—
the poem as procedure,
as being punched in the stomach one too many times. One
is too many times in terms of stomach punches.
                                                                   In terms
of thundersnow, the street is now covered. I watch
small children refuse to walk in it. They cross their arms and ask
to be carried.
                    In terms of that feeling, I’m sewn up always.
Dependent on inclinations toward you and the poem —
the blur thick with lightning and ice.
Do you look through the windshield or at the glass
when you scrape? At what point is the vehicle too covered
to leave be?     I’m spending the evening in
replacing
               buttons on sweaters and knobs on our cabinetry.
In flashes I need
                         the thundersnow’s light to see.
In some vacancy of sound and light I’m carried, fed by
the diction of that intimacy.