snow on brown leaves

A wisp of the will. It whispered,
disperse. Into migraines. Smashinto
bootleg latkas.
Into garlicky anomalies &
Friday night laundry, necessary, re: 
spaghetti dinner massacred 
                                       that white t-shirt. 

Removing it. (balling it up with masking tape.) 
Ripping my insecure geography of 
political futures 
from the wall. (balling it up with future-scented detergent.) 
Futures bottled, had? I have none. I am None, the Wiser.

Now, if I could river. 
If I could for one day run
without touching the bottom. 
If a homesick fish could know water. 
If you could reach me
like the disc of a sunfish 
rising 
from unseeable water. 
Like the sick sun rising in the window
reaching for me. 

The muses don't talk, they sing 
nonsense at me. 
You sense talk me. 
We talk, nonsense becomes a giddy sense. 
When it’s rain, rain pours itself.
What am I saying?
Nothing in particular. 
I'm the hissing 
snow, falling on brown leaves.