I wake up whispering,
“It was not much of an offering.”
Snow soft-shoes the glass.
A boy mumbles in the closet,
“Forgive me father for I have sinned.”
Lied. Swore. Hit my brother.
Thinking about crow’s change
I give meaning to the snow-powdered carcass;
build an altar with twigs.
I dream of a former boss.
He asks me, “What do you dream?
What are your nightmares?”