in snow and
pebble beaches
your tent zip has rusted
in rain, frozen shut
enveloped you in
scumpy firepit numb feet stink.
meanwhile, I read molly bloom’s
monologue over
seven times to
make it stick
peel bedding back
like the skins of grapes
with dreams of boxing day
bubble and squeak
a frosted countryside
to blend into I
dodge mayonnaise
potato salad sweat
ferment to the squeal
of a ceiling fan.