No matter whose woods, or what we think
We know, there is never enough
Kindling to stoke the woodstove, clinking
From the melting drips. Outside, rough
Crystals start at the puddle edges. Cirrus
Formed to frost on earth, an opaque ring
Of white. But, the center remains serous,
Fully fluid, almost sure of the thing
It represents: negative space, plain speak
Of the ungraspable. Our pale, chapped lips,
Faithfully circling into the leaky
O’s of our stove-pipes, canons, and our wits,
Just blowing poetry smoke. The roof’s bowed,
Though solid. Miles, then muffled sleep like snow.
J.P. Grasser is originally from Maryland. His work explores the diverse regions he has called home, most insistently his family's fish hatchery in Brady, Nebraska. He studied English and Creative Writing at Sewanee: The University of the South and is currently an MFA student in poetry at Johns Hopkins University.