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.