pearls upon your cheeks

you are bouncing down the street and snow is falling slowly ; so slowly you can see the lack of rhythm pressing itself against the canvas of the atmosphere / the metronome is stuck right in the center , and we are all on the edge of the earth looking at the way rain comes back down in so many pieces;; I watch the yellow green grass slowly turn white; the cold bundle itself in the trunks of trees // the bark skin grows tattoos of cream and silver ; all the pine glistens, the chopped edges of branches: an opening – our glassy consciousness now a slow motion ripple of words falling into a blanket ; you are still laughing down this empty street ; tucked into our tiny corner of the world, you do not care what I am writing, you just care about the way the flakes of snow whisker upon your eyelashes and place themselves like pearls upon your cheeks ; you laugh and gasp and grasp towards the sky ; you dig your bare hands into the freeze as if the cold was just another friend come to play // victorious with only a spoon, you are serving snow soup to all the imaginary creatures that live on an upturned rock / humming sounds and sound effects the only language you need to speak to the snow , and here, in the silence of this swollen lullaby, the snow speaks back

slow dance

rowboat of wonder, i am nothing but a tumble of tiny wishes making their way home from war, i am tucked under the sink, folded in the back pocket of a world still blazing; january sings the same song: the warm by the heater, hum under the fluorescent light, tuck inside the moon tonight, wrap yourself up by the light of the fridge, tune your brain to the chime of some electric buzz you cannot place song; race yourself backwards in time, see who finishes first, let the flame spread a little further — i can walk a little farther, i can do it. i am waiting to plant all my seeds. for now i sit and stare at the legs of this chair and admire how the cabinet sings to the tile; how the rug one day will dissolve, all my bits of skin gone with it; how the sky has only 4 moods in the winter, and none of them look like you; how heat like friction will sit inside the walls, fold its hands and dream of sleep ; how the particles outside sit still and wait , some fever dream that never breaks; the slow dance of particles twirling to a silence we cannot hear

i’ve tried to find pretty words about the past week and i just can’t / so i’ll write plain words instead — about the rain tapping on the roof right now, the curl of fake heat that blurs my cheeks apple red – the pummel of news, the shading and shaping of words, the quick click ‘off’ of the tv remote when jamie walks in the room / the weekend spent cutting a hole my house, dragging a 300lb wood stove in and working all day for it to not work, to the click and rattle of rolling about in a circle again, the pull and push of the center of gravity to tug at my over-inculcation with news, with analyses, the inability to drown myself in paint – to curve into the corners of a brush, the tip inside the edge of a wheel and just keep spinning downhill, the joy of getting to take a walk outside with mr. bush on his 70th birthday last saturday, of getting to take home some of his pottery, to place it in my cupboards, my mentor of all mentors, the gift that goes beyond all days — the hunkering of winter, the drill of any screen into my eyeballs, the hush of any quiet memory ; the twirl of a new day, or the same day that keeps repeating, inside out and sideways through