November trees line the street, I see them in their lovely perfect rows out the window. One hundred black birds soar in formation, spreading out farther and farther across a whisper gray sky. I plead with the gods for an early snow. Fantasize the smell of it before the first flake even crystallizes deep in the wet white atmosphere. The soul is a frighteningly open space. Chilling in its vastness. Beyond the bone prison. It would be sweet, the attention poets give it, if it weren’t so brutal on the psyche. I curl my fingers around a cigarette, draw the curtain back and blow smoke out into the quiet. There are tear stains on my hollowed heart. Coffee rings on the worn pages which never stop turning in my mind. Imagining what it would feel like to dance along the tree tops in bare feet, I run a finger against the glass and carve a shape into the frost. What to do with so many secrets falling to the earth underneath my chest. Where to run when all the universe is already inside. I let it in. I swallowed it whole. They won’t tell you but I will. The trouble with secrets is that they are true.