1.23.12 a series of endless errors.

there are some things about a snow-blurred weekend
words that do not fall into place. so much to see on
the other side of that blur. think of all that red. the blue. 
secrets. all the carefully arranged details of another day.
frost-rime and sleet-stain. slush burned black.
recovering the dumb genius of happiness. of normalcy.
unhappy families are conspiracies of silence.
the intellectual split above the grid of black wires.
On some Sundays I forget who I am. and whether
I part my hair: middle, right, left. or whether
I part it at all. when even the batteries are dead and
Monday becomes the least of all possible evils. 
yes, even then.