There's more to life than fucking and death.
There's snow, for instance, or boats.
Once, there was boat in a backyard.
Up on sawhorses. Raised.
The snow came.
It sounded like a silent train.
The ground was muddy for weeks before.
Bulbs were coming up.
Then the ground
just froze solid in love with snow
and its dark, reckless jewelry.
The snow rose over the ground.
It formed drifts, leaned up against
those sawhorses, four feet deep.
Buried them.
We got up in that little skiff
and we rolled out on an ocean of white.
There's more to life than fucking and death.
