Spike bit Maxine on the hand last week.
As blood came up in tiny beads, he rubbed

against her legs and purred. Plows excavate
narrow, high-walled tunnels along our streets.

Yesterday, the schoolhouse roof collapsed
under layers of snow. I am learning

to french-braid my hair. Each morning, I gather
and plait these graying strands; each evening

I untwist them. Birch trees hold white ruffs
in their pale arms. While the house of my body

decays, I remodel the other. The kitchen is down
to dust and studs. Avalanche danger is high.

I woke this morning from a dream, thinking:
if no one knows I am lost, how will they ever find me?