The Snow Fell In Their Rhythm.

The snow fell apart in the winter room.
The bitter nights were cold and lonely.
The snow fell into my shoe
And I bent to pick it out with my thumb,
My eyes bright they see stars.
The sky is gray;
I am going kayacking.
I tell myself words I wouldn’t want to hear
Any other time.
I sing myself words I don’t want to understand.

You told me you wouldn’t sing to me.
You told me the banjo plays softly in the other room.
The words creep softly across the page.
I sing gently and cry about the woman on the stage.
They are reading scripts again.
They are seeking resolution when there is none.
They are crypting phonographs and turn styles and
The cake is burning in the oven.
I make myself a sandwich.

This morning, you told me you
Would not go out for a pack of smokes.
Of heartstrings plucked and riddled with doubt.
Of the snow that is both cold and debates
That the clock that has been strung has stilled.
The hills are wrought in colored snow.
The rainbow is stinted in silver rays of rain,
That splice through the clouds,
And onto gentle meadows-
The man’s boots are covered with dew.
You told me you would not go out.
You had gone out yet again,
That the morning dew is full of bright
Colors.
The stores are open. We talk about this or
That.
A sparrow chirps in the trees,
Its singsong voice loud in a green meadow.
The field is covered in snow.
I didn’t know sparrows could sing in snow.
That dancing was their rhythm.

Random Objects.

The vase sits in a room made out of glass.
Frost whispers on windows. Winter, and the sun
Drifts through the trees and falls on the very
Windows in the room. The sun is cold as ice. It burns like
Fire.

Three deer wander into my yard. I put the deer pellets
In the bird feed last week, their tongues roll out of their
Mouths, nostrils move up and down. Fog reaches three
Feet in front of me.

She said you shouldn’t leave your scrapbook on
The gray porch. She said aliens are sometimes real.
I say what kind. She says nothing. I am alone. Poe
Warned me about it in third grade. He said I wouldn’t
Live past age 50, I have light years to go, but you make
Me want to sleep. Sailors in ancient ships flock graveyards,
Robert, Melanie, Deran, Patrick. They all told me to get lost. I said
I never was in the first place.

Party on Tuesday. You put your hair up nice,
And move the clock to the windowsill. The window hums.
The wind slams the front door shut.