|Jul/Aug 2007 Poetry|
The snow is soft and merciless. The neighborhood
was taken over, while we slept, in nauseated fits.
Now it's blank like the street's just had a lobotomy, and all its
quirks of memory are locked inside, the dogs and sleds and children.
Now it's white like there was an altar call in the middle
of my hangover, and the world elected to be born again.
Even if I'd known in time, I would have
kept out of the business.
But some of these capped trees still remind me of things: that one,
a blond boy in a long black coat, someone I must have known.
The snow is soft and merciless
and beautiful. I'm going back to bed now.