It was winter. All around, the mountains
like an open mouth, preparing to speak.
I said your name over and over, as though
this could help. Ah, little fish, slick-bodied
fingerling. Names have nothing to do with you.
A cloud passes over the moon.
Strokes its pocked cheek gently, then
The baby monitor picks up strangers’
telephone conversations. Nothing
you can do about it now,
the woman says.
There’s no book where it’s written down.
All those hours, blank pages blowing
across the snowy steppes. Your body leaves
its imprint in the wrinkled sheets:
shape that won’t fit you anymore