Bluesky

Snow as little prayers, or wings, clipped and left behind by angelsthat decided to becomehumans today. And today,the interiority of rain. It’s true,I don’t know how to make meaningsof my mess. My palms, pinkenedas they scooped up an armfulof torn, crystalized wings, feathered withground & dirt, and held it closeto my chest. Where can I put it down?Anne Carson’s persona in The Glass Essayreplied, when her mother told herher memories need some sortsof unhoarding. I wonder about waysto respond to that, when all thespaces I have left are, already, behind me (?) The snow that charmed mehas now brushed against that window-pane, where stood a boy, donningthe straps of his mother’s maxi dress.The mirror in front of him hasthis slight torque from fingerprints.Fake silverware and light, reverberating inmythic photons. Vision of a snowfield,where winter frost bruises everythinginto a quiet something. Little metaphorsthat are beautiful in this life only.You must wonder now—if the snow has become the boy’s mucus,pooling on his wrists, as he crouched down,hands scratching kneecaps. Or is itthe milkwood flowers outside,pluming the streets with their pale, steelycanopies. Like the said God’s arms,flailing and reaching to hear the lastwords of his kind—