Excerpt from the book Enter Invisible

Dear Snow,

The grandfather clock is set at bewilder
which means this tower spiraling
some un-time reads: if, when, awhile.

If the night hadn't come in like ink
against the castle's shore and briar isle,
then roses next, house and ingle.

But how are you and your worry wild?
And how's all that brood, short and short in sin,
excepting the basic grump, laze, hap. Wilt

come for Christmas, snowflake and spin?
Or are you still locked up a-wheel of wiles?
Damned stepmother washed up, has been.

These days I have something of the guile
roosting under eave and shingle.
Dad, the king, looks at me and cries,

but I'm not hurt or bad beyond a splinter.
Harvest is in, the realm expanding and I
so-so in school. But he's gone mad to spindle.

(My advice is this:
Bewilder awhile wild eye and well,
splinter the spindle into spine, and ink and apple.)

Sigh,

Sleep