Last night thick snow hurried past
the window. The grandfather clock chipped,
chipped, chipped away.

The phone on the night stand
lay flat on its back, the day’s news buried
under its black slab.

Between trains, the subway tunnel
stirred with dusty tremors. A blue spark crackled
on the third rail.

Stuck in January, candle days
melted down into icy pools of wax, wicks
leaning like burnt trees.