Thing I am working on.

There is suburban filthy snow

and the rhythm of cars,

alone/along 287.

There is your shadow

riveted by tire tracks,

as we stand at the foot

of the haunted woods,

but where we didn't necessarily stand,

but left our markers and elegies

good enough for cut white flowers

from the grocery store.

Will I get to take
you, drunk on wine,

on my floor?  Forget what

was important just last moment?

There's the waves of tires

and the waves of you,

and another storm - 

fresh then grotesque -

entrapping you to my bed.