"As Freezing Persons Recollect the Snow."
At the pointed setting sun I talk with you,
God, when my foot edges
the corner of a cold walkway, marking
the end of some season; now,
even, as my own mind, silky, grasps
of clear branches, tearing outward skies,
your arm swiftness,
swarms in these things,
like shouts
in this open, brightly.
Everything smells beautiful
at the point I will to turn, God,
myself laid into the bleeding sun, trembling
in it
delightedly.
For the rest of my life I believe you are good.
Against that upholstered, man-made
bench seat, hopping across
roads, face vibrating,
I knew. How near I actually
am to meeting skidded crusted cement.
How if release happens, it could only be a right.
Thin fabrications only hold my face
from being scraped.
Now even the floor is a blessing.
~~
Yes, of course it is another poem. (:
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