Thursday, February 24, 2011


Stopped like a cork bottle
And infertile
With a turkey’s wattle
I peck about
The bits of interior chattel

The snow continues to fall.
There is distance between us.
Perfect snowflakes
A million of them
How can they exist in such numbers?
Their six symmetrical points
Swirling before their hasty decay
Into droplets

But we have no such fine filigree
Jumbled and muddy
We falter
At the thought of altering our space
Our room our air our shadows
We reach for the same sad bottle of stopped up
Hopped up happy juice
Yours is a bottle
Mine is you.

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