The snow and sleet returned after a union break and a smoke.

I woke this morning to the smell of baking bread and her warmth beside me after a dream of running up a steep hill. A young Paul Newman met me at the top with a length of boat line I would need to climb down the flat face to the other side.

I was late for a wedding. Half the guest list offered their obituaries as gifts for the bride and groom.

When I opened my eyes, I knew I’d made it over.

For a moment we exist as lords
in the kingdom of a finite forever.

The end whinges at first. The days 
before the air smells of ozone,

the wind is frigid and we make lists
of supplies and childhood memories

of the safety under school desks
and cheap comfort of form prayers.