By John Thornburg

May paved the road to her heart
with sidewalk chalk and dark matter
with soap scum and candy floss

in the barroom, May and I
we talk.

about how well animals pull off moustaches
and the last drops of brandy-irised laughter
filter through the live band, I don’t know
some 80’s cover band and the voices

of mothers and their tonics.  It is during
Little Lies that she tells me that she is
lethally frostbitten, no kindling, no coals
no flowers on her grave, she declares
that she is a ghost.

On the taxi ride home I see the city
as yellow and red motes, the driver
says something about U-Turns
and the night inverts and spirals

May rests her head by the window
but I think she should know:
I am growing a moustache
wide enough to plow the snow
from frozen roads