Tell

Inside a wooden home, in a field of snow,
nothing moves, as if cemented down.

Then, a demented kettle lets loose,
and you, shirtless man, survey the land
through a stained pane of glass in the bedroom.

Behind you, floorboards creak,
or is it a woman’s labored breathing?
Now, you are leaving
a single trail of footprints in the snow.

You walk in the company of shuddering, leafless trees.
The footprints won’t be footprints soon,
as a slow, bleeding blue covers everything,
the kettle’s yell, the damned bedroom.