Somewhere inside, things get warmer for December, that is, the snow's melting fast-- and I proffer you a tired poem, a poem uphill walking slowly, drunkenly, trying to talk all night until we say, "enough" and close our eyes. * So. You self-mythologize, they say, and I see the majesty, the possibility, all the stories you tell and the ones you clearly hide; too proud to beckon, too fierce to slip away: I see the hollow places where I could fit and the hard places I would fall; that's when you'd call me, at that exact moment: as I leave, you come in. * These poems have become a conversation with the negative: that space you call your own, the vacuum of the possible-- yes, and no, and everything I'd say in between, like: 'what do you want', and 'do you?' and yet never 'who are you?' because you know, don't you.