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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