for winter, i stored my sadness 
along with the animal feed. 
brought it kernel by kernel
to the silo which grew,
pill-like, in the yard.
the animals by now were all ghosts.
cows laying on their sides 
beneath the willow tree 
like children hiding under
a mother's skirt. they told me
i should prepare for snow
but instead i savored each 
knuckle-worth of distress that budded in me.
sorrow can become a hobby
if you are living on the right street
& there aren't enough headlights
to harvest. living alone,
i ate only dragonflies & centipedes.
opened my mouth & closed my eyes.
thought of saint john the baptist 
devouring crickets in his loneliness.
i would never go hungry, i told myself.
stared up at the silo 
as it became more & more obelisk.
the animals took their skeletons
underground by november 
& it was just me. walking at night,
i counted sidewalk squares
& talked to fallen leaves.
you can use your melancholy 
as a fire or a hearth. the difference is
a fire asks for more & more of you.
i made a fire in every room.
the silo wept. full of weighty future.
tongue turning over like a flag poll.
filled to the brim. 
you can stuff every corner with grain 
& still feel a hole where the winter
with pull you. the silo 
sang to herself or maybe to me.
it was only october, i told myself.
but the animals were dirt dwelling
& it was just me & 
each & every kernel. 

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