Postprocess

"Look," said the tree-line
horizon.

"I am always in your window."

November keeps
slipping in and out of consciousness.

You put you clothes on
like a painting happening.

I open up the shutter
as the snow begins to fall,

framing the lonely white sycamore
in the viewfinder of my shadow.

There is always someone
out there waiting for me to make an exit,

to follow the static of night into
the patterns of creatures, into the cryptic corners of silver.