Middle Winter 
Midwinter flows like a week of Thursdays.
On the real Thursday there’s an imposter
air about the hours. From the moment I wake
and walk the dogs outside, the morning rain
sounds dry, like pieces of paper running away.
On the seventh day, on the real Thursday
the thunder god will appear as I watch
the dogs piss on the earth, astride a leaf
in his tiny chariot of goats swept downstreet
by the runoff, and slam his hammer against
the midrib of the maple vessel almost
as if he didn’t know controlling the weather
doesn’t mean controlling the season.