winter triptych

sometimes stuck in this clear jar,

which happens to hold

a cardboard drink

which is the name of this country,

almost slurped down now

to its saccharine bottom.

the snow on the ground

burns white sun patches

into our eyes

and gives the cold,

brown mud clumps in our hair

a dingy glisten.

it must have seemed easier, better

to decline the autopsy: not to know

whether the tragedy was even more tragic,

the well of burnt chances, disappointments

and abuse perhaps still deeper

than their sad, hopeful pain.