Read by Matthew Minicucci

The lake freezes, the lake closes its eyes
and a minor paralysis comes upon us.
From the knees, I stand in landfall, landfill.
Above, vultures continue their business in the heavens.
Toads wipe their eyes in pure funeral.
What changes is not the weather.
What changes is barely there, like a stocking
hanging over a bathtub, drying in clean air.
I spent all night shaking out a sleepy leg.
In the morning, the consequences are heavy.
You fall out of bed, pure boxed gravity.