sometimes the drift comes in at all angles and children make snow angels in driveways. your voice wakes me up into afternoons of empty houses and burglars on the prowl. i slip on ice and skate into stained glass not yet muddied by contempt. steps into staircases onto floors of new wood already beaten by a relentless gravity. i burrow myself underneath a field of raked leaves waiting for a match. or, at the very least, the absolute quality of winter.