My Message

Bland scarlet birds scatter
across the grotesque late March snow.

The fiery warning of sunset grinds closer
to the dunes, who cringe from its flames.

I draw the blinds, but looking out the window
all I see is my reflection, a pebble face
with snow for eyes.

A carbon monoxide song, I can’t
hear it, cries danger, cries loss, cries shame.

I count my fingers, check my throat.
I put my hand in front of my mouth,
feel the heat from my breath.

It’s warm, and smells like frost.