isn't a round edge in town
leaves silver and brown
cold rolled down to bone.
isn't a warm hand in sight
red-knuckled and white-
skinned fingers like stone.
crack of a window, crack of a sheet
of the ice on my eyelids, my tracks in the street.

let through what ain't frozen
let out what must freeze
like the sun you can't hold in
the fingers of trees

never a moment that's dull
saw slicing the tile, dead whine
as the cut pieces fall.
go caulk them into the floor
let it hold what bears down,
solid weights, as I step through the door.
plane of the sidewalk, angled to roll
down to slush-cluttered gutters, the bridges of trolls.

let through what ain't broken
let in what holds still
like the light that just pokes in
from over the sill

can't find a surface that's flat
from the step where I perch my rear end
to the brim of my hat.
come now, fit yourself in the lock
tell the square hole you're far from the only
round peg on the block.