Water as solid
You sing the song of apoplexy. The disturbed
of your lungs says ‘Do not.’
All that can be heard, living the interior life.
People in their quiet
living rooms think the television is training them
to be still,
but outside trains carry circuses around the country
with all their
tents and whistles. Little plastic dolls bob their heads
inside of cars
and buildings rock in rhythmic assent to sleep.
Another weekend full of briars and no berries.
The same snowflake falls and falls from the sky like it wants
a parachute and never
to be repeated. This is like your voice, that it can come off
your tongue and can’t
come off anywhere else. Your head cocks back and small pieces
of very cold water lose
themselves in the cloud of your breath. They touch your skin and collect
in mounds all over the place.
In the road, a boat grows less and less moveable.
Author Discusses Poems