More of the Same

I went out at two in the morning.

Sleep had stopped being available.

New snow was falling on old snow—

no wind, almost no sound.

Less than the refrigerator.

Less than my own breathing.

I stood there until my feet went cold

and coming back inside

I realized I hadn't thought

about a single thing

the whole time I was out there.

Not the conversation I keep replaying.

Not the money. Not her.

Nothing.

The new snow was settling into the old

and there was no border between them.

White over white—the surface

just accepting what comes down.

I've been standing in the kitchen since,

trying to figure out

if the not-thinking is a problem.

Whether I should be more worried about it

than I am.