Wednesday, November 30, 2011

winter, again

If you sped winter up
in the city,

it would make the joint-cracking sound
of a pomegranate

torn open for its seeds.
The reedy sunlight

lies down along the sidewalk,
resting in constellations of salt.

The undressed air, for a season,
carries only itself.

Saturday, November 12, 2011


A 26-year-old stands by the door of a dark coffeeshop
half an hour after closing, one hand on the alarm pad,

calls back into the place to coworkers, to stop them moving.
They are collecting sweaters, bags; they are going home now.

After momentary stillness the alarm beeps, they go outside.
It is warm or it is cold.

70 years later, looking at the trees beyond the window
the 26-year-old thinks, "yes--that.
that exactly."

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