Circulation

                   In winter, the dying linger.

My father contemplates the drunken whispers
of the waves. He relishes his last breath of crisp fall air.

His boat idles at the gates of a rotting slalom course.
Words shiver from his mouth as he damns the river.

A snowflake lands near his tongue.

For a moment he has a youthful palate,
the childish inclination to enjoy the cold.

Frozen water sits on top of freezing water
like ice cubs floating in his drink.

Another northern winter triggered by tragedy:
student dies by drowning, ingestion of water.

A tobacco-dry sunset offers the last temptation
of warmth, teasing colorless, ungloved fingers, illuminating
nicotine-stained and callused knuckles.

A few pop cans and abandoned buoys line the shore
where the last of the fall leaves roll,

A plastic bottle floats before taking on water.
Brittle limbs snap.

The trees sound like rain.