Scioto Snow

Prints cross ice;

imagine a doe

coaxed to the river,

enveloped in lust

and white.

Gloved fingers,

breath exhaled

like anxious chimneys;

all of me

in your pocket.

We thrust low,

confound the cold,

unable to see beyond

the crosshatch of blue ash

and sycamore.

Wonder how

this flux can survive;

fresh unbodied rush,

metallic, more feverish
than spring.

tk/November 2014



Exquisite read by R.A.D. Stainforth...

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Poppy

I save the red nostalgic kiss.

After the longest moment of silence,

press the petals to my lips.

I have kept the faith, knowing I would love

and be loved, intimately

remember how November lies,

cenotaph on the other side of the Atlantic.

I am like a ghost who signals,

hears the same blood-beat in my ear;

chance shrapnel delivers

the opiate churning up of earth.

This late-flowering lust.

tk/November 2014


Excellent read by R.A.D. Stainforth...love the rare smile...

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