the last snow is melting & i don't want to be a salamander yet

the junk mail has been trying
to give me a prophecy. i have never
been good at receiving. instead, i fill
the mailbox with fish. i open a window
& a stray cat climbs in. i say, "just don't tell
mom & dad." i am mom & dad. 
there are still piles of snow despite march's
readiness. in the costco parking lot 
the monster dusty snow pile has streaks
from where children sledded down 
its sides onto the asphalt. i crave an automatic 
kind of morning. i have noticed lately
i have to spend more & more time beneath a rock.
no television. no phone, just the moisture
helping me breathe. i go to a talking place
& everyone is saying, "i am tired." 
i want to run out into the middle of the street
& scream. scream until someone comes out
of their house. until the geese on their way home
circle me. i want someone to ask,
"what is wrong?" so that i can say, "at least
when it was cold the coffin felt real."
now there are flowers. wild onion.
i tell them, "do you know what is happening?"
they say, as if i am the naive one, "yes."
i look at cars for sign that they might be
face catchers. i look at surveillance cameras 
drinking our skin like juice pouches. 
i don't want to be a salamander. i want
to be a brother. i skip seeing my brother
three times in a row. i apologize profusely. 
the text might as well be a parking lot snowball. 
he tells me it is alright. it is not alright.
i am weeping in the valley of creeks. i am 
watching fingernails worth of internet.
burning. burning. a new oil man. 
a dinosaur discovered. a dinosaur, rising again
to finally eat the sun. i promise my brother
i will see him soon. i will see him not too late.
the carpet beetles are awake. i have to feed them.
a yolk replaces the sun. i worry it will
attract flies. they make umbrellas that sing.
i step in the stale snow on a seventy-degree day.
i prefer the cusp to the true relief.