a hundred years of hundred-year winters

                     accumulating snow in the hundreds of thousands of something, of inches

of continued burial of what stands in for sadness

that we store in Gladware tubs bought from the fluorescent-lit

mud-streaked linoleum that will continue to be Wal-Mart

after we are gone & ethyl-burned from the earth

like stars, or maybe I mean fire-scars from

alcohol-filled-up cups and the blaze & leak & blare

televisions left on for a hundred winter years pouring light out against the snow &

us with our day-old bread that tastes (honestly, well, mostly) like ass

like ash from the mountain-mouth, ash exfoliated from the burnt log

an asterisk of dog remains unburied in the yard and will be eaten

the cheery new dog gnawing on the last one's bones

moan coming after snow after snow becoming moan