Tuesday, December 17, 2013


Probably, this snow will abate
and the pines sigh like rain,
though the thermometer says
minus ten and descending
further when night crawls along
snow shadows like talons,
like fangs and the cars on
our road begin to slide,
a shimmy dance with ice,
an echo against frosted
windows and faces and cats
hurrying home.  Probably we
will sit in the living-room, a
glass of wine as near as any
memory of where we were
in 1962, of how the Kennedy
assassination was merely
the first act.  Terrorism, that
event which bends the mind until
it unravels into as many threads
as a spider web in high wind,
a metaphor which loses shape
with age, changing into more
than it was ever intended to be,
like love which is stalked through
ever evidence of its existence,
like the wind which is now abating,
allowing the snow to fall, a
curtain which will probable bury
the street, like our words will bury
any reason why we should not.

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