snow. motor oil. music.

the snow-

heap oily, scraped

late from the lot

in thin sun

and warmish wind

melts away in rainbow slicks

sticks to my boot heel

hoisted up

to the van's foot mat

by key turn

classical music station

scrapes me up.

an empty street in north France

with snatches of

carols from cathedral carillon.

the eyes prick

notes process like gonfanons

over midwinter.

these things

unknown but necessary

arriving seem late.