The cold this morning
washes the sky white
and painful to look at
directly
the moon
up early
a pulled fingernail
chased by weak sun
I can’t bear to breathe
nine degrees and westerly wind
There is no permanent
damage
but isn’t all damage permanent?
There is a fountain
improbably
jetting high white water
and steam just below
the hill
frozen foam
a crystallizing volcano
tumbling over grass, it’s
steam still in air and
I can smell it
like anticipating a blow
to the head
and the metal that follows
If it snows
it will snow on my confessional
But the fountain looks inviting
warm
it is so painfully white
it would burn my lungs
but I know it would
give you nothing but nonsense
and me
nothing
but grief
No comments:
Post a Comment