FORECAST
a hundred years of hundred-year winters
accumulating snow in the hundreds of thousands of something, of inches
of continued burial of what stands in for sadness
that we store in Gladware tubs bought from the fluorescent-lit
mud-streaked linoleum that will continue to be Wal-Mart
after we are gone & ethyl-burned from the earth
like stars, or maybe I mean fire-scars from
alcohol-filled-up cups and the blaze & leak & blare
televisions left on for a hundred winter years pouring light out against the snow &
us with our day-old bread that tastes (honestly, well, mostly) like ass
like ash from the mountain-mouth, ash exfoliated from the burnt log
an asterisk of dog remains unburied in the yard and will be eaten
the cheery new dog gnawing on the last one's bones
moan coming after snow after snow becoming moan
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