Facet
examine the holes for angels
moving between tongues
art of surgery upon light
noisy clucking screen
so between cracks
see color
a lush street
covered in sun.
On the phone
someone reminds me of Zappa,
“Don’t go near the yellow snow.
Don’t go where the huskies go…”
But there is no yellow snow
only fresh white powder.
I plop down and make an angel
the snow so deep I sink right in.
Plie myself with espresso and
read Bernadette Mayer who happens
to be writing about snow.
I am getting closer to a rhythm of days
finding angels in the holes.
Outside, a woman yells at me
for getting snow on the sidewalk she just shoveled.
I shuffle on to get a sandwich and lemon soda.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment