ow Snow Falls
Like the unshaven prickle
of a sharpened razor,
this new coldness in the air,
the pang
of something intangible.
Filling our eyes,
the sinusitis of perfume
without the perfume.
And then love's vertigo,
love's exactitude,
this snow, this transfiguration
we never quite get over.
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I want this snow. It's too damn hot here.
ReplyDelete(These words are too big for vacation.)
:-)