Excerpt:

​11. It’s hard not to blame; how promising
it looked on posters. Miles of gold
growing in fields 
grew in us--
and the stories gossiped at the markt under shade of elms and steeple--follow my heart’s desire, you said, but my heart stopped for the numb eternity between “emigrate?” And “yes”.
Now that i’m here,
it’s catching up.

13. The window panes gave into last night’s storm. By morning our bed’s snow covered.

14. I should have drawn this: a white face behind curtains that can’t close.
I couldn’t have supposed such black on white, such a self.