In the hottest bar in Wisconsin the singer sings about blind white panic and crystalline faces coming in from the cold. The dying singer sings about love, and I hear the band behind her heaving quiet sighs into the lights. In the morning, the red crows bang into high-water pylons and fold back into the sky. The pines are deep in snow, but they don’t know it yet. The mild sounds: a moist wing, a finger in a trout, the girl with the hissing lantern comes down stairs like water under ice. This is my worst season, because I’ll follow anybody.

I kicked you out. You packed up and fell asleep on our bed, tickle porn spilling out of boxes across your hips. An echelon of shiva beads advances upon your dark nipples and the scar below your throat.

This morning I chose YouTube over poetry — cooking videos mostly, and specifically the folded Japanese omelette called tamagoyaki. Not because I was hungry, though I am — I’m trying to lose weight and fasting is part of my plan — but because I could relate to the aesthetics: thin layers of eggs, dashi, sweet mirin wine, daikon garnish, soy for flavor, served like nori sushi in a line. I’m drawn to cooking because my life lacks a plan. Every day is a creation; I never know if I can get it together, so it’s easier to watch Jacques Pepin.