going back would mean
the crisp of frost, jam jars
lit like jewels

along the window in the
kitchen.  Outside the cows,
stomping: eyes rolled back,
steam-streaming,
tongues thick and damp

as woolen socks. 
You make it sound so

easy:  the breakfasts, the
times.  Even that spring
you built a sandbox
by the south side
of the shed.

Consider this: the heart is
not a vestigial organ. 
It beats

ruthlessly.  What enters is
quickly shunted aside by
the torrent
of what comes next.