Iowa Poem

Where am I that winter
pinches the side of my face
leaks chill bones deer come
right up to the house
and perfume the sticks
with artificial light
it's a trouble call
from the void of hollers
deep in the ice a hand
reaches across the table
for your own but
that was someone else
a clipped snatch
from a longer movie
high on the shelf
a black bug crawls over
the photograph
of you waving
in the same yard
now covered in snow.