Imbolc

Yesterday he was given a mound
of slow-re­lease tran­quil­iz­ers,
grease-driz­zled.

Today, still stu­pe­fied,
he will be made to prog­nos­ti­cate.

Not that it mat­ters;

his shadow
or lack of
shadow;

six weeks of win­ter
ei­ther way.

All the ro­dent knows
is that it is too damn early
and too damn cold to
get the hell up.

Speak your piece