So Far, There Is No Snowstorm

I am occupying a number of places
at once, as if, the coiled snake
in the shoe orbits something.

I'm neither happy nor unhappy with the beard.
It arrives, it has a certain tickling/scratching sensation.
It is a manner of face fur and it deserves a designated amount
of respect. But no one

in the dense forest that grows thick growth
seems to see what this is.
It's not the obvious cliche that matters.
It's the sadness of the shoe.

Neither breathing nor desnaking, it plows
through the closet darkness
heaping snow on the cars parked
roadside. I'm saying, Whatever!
And, Uh, yes.