Before you, mistakes were made.
It can be admitted now.
There is no reason for embarrassment.
Last February, in Val-d'Or, outside the Red Light
a drunk waded into stinging air and gulped at her relief.
Boredom is frost bite and gnaws at toes of the soul.
Claire de lune howling clogs the ears.
Confined by snowdrifts and imprisoned by darkness
mistakes were made. Everyone there was from some place else.
Nights when just blankets would not do,
distracted Coeur D'Alene hips satisfied an aching now.
Electric red deer women transmit transient joy.
An escape with danger is ruined by intention
and flawed in design. There are never accidents.
dealing with destructive appetites; there are always excuses.
Being the last one to know, it takes time.
Watching snow shinned wheat bend
for her breath to reach your face.