Even the air is ice-

ridden. Locals rehash

the sweep of tides flushing

out debris, clams

freezing in their pitch-

gray sandbeds. This wintertime

summer home sits

dark on its plot.

Tree frogs chirp until

nine, then disappear,

sleeping in the scrub pine.

Defiant in its anti-

urbanity, this house releases

not a single sound.

My spine curls, fetal,

trapping in

some spot of body

heat. The pitch

of my own breathing

frightens.