Winter Gudauri, Republic of Georgia
Timothy Kercher

Trash-pile dogs bark the second
hand tick, keeping time under
our window. Flakes layer on
their bristled fur & this week’s waste.
I listen to the drunks stumbling
home on fresh-dropped snow—
feet sinking into a forgetfulness,
stuck in a snow globe
unsettled by some unseen hand.
Or is my cranium the globe,
the storm, my thoughts? I watch
my wife sleep—the shifting winds
of each breath foretelling
the snow’s last kiss, but the blizzard
outside shakes the roof & she
won’t let up.

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