WALKING HOME
WALKING HOME
the snow is like a harpsichord
crystals running high in dendrites
of faceless trees dressed all alike
in bureaucratic grey
a fracture underfoot
the bridge has frozen first
now I know that the sign is right
that the truth isn’t cursed
black water far below
rushes by teeth of ice
it slows into cellos it swells
into knuckles of streetlight
ahhh