language is mysterious—from clear to opaque in the same book, the same essay, thinking, it's all the same conversation in different tongues. poems can be both. for moments it appears there's nothing to resolve. the snow is melting into fog, rising sighs rise, dirt breathes, underneath roots sending something vanishingly ordinary. see, the smoke from the smokestacks disappears. my upper body got as or more flaccid than my thought this pandemic winter, year of dog loss.