after Michael Symmons Roberts
So much snow, held in the lattice
of red-framed panes. We can’t see through.
Obliterated by whiteness
all shape is lost, all features blurred.
Shivering, waiting to connect.
You could suppose a frozen corpse
entombed, there in that icy box,
receiver held in frost-bound hand.
Against the door a driven weight.
I lever it open, stick-thin
slide inside. The after-blizzard
silence amplified, colder still.
Breath like cinnamon. Fix my grin
I say – take a close-up. It will
never change, even when we do.
iv. 2025
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