The first month, I skip the dishes because it’s snowing—

someone has curtained off the sky.

I sleep in flowery socks to dream of spring.

But I dream of pale nothingness,

if I dream at all. At least I keep finding new songs

to play in the car, with names like “Now I’m Learning

to Love the War.” For Monkey people,

the best financial luck is in autumn.

I want a sign sooner, even if it’s as quiet as snowfall,

or some puncture, some change in the all-white sky.