For Some Things It Doesn't Matter Which Season

For Some Things It Doesn't Matter Which Season


As snow falls on crusty streets,
too-dense angel hair thickening traffic,
tree fringe half-fried in ice,
I turn as if ready to meet
my maker on a whim – complete
surrender to my sense of cold as a howling catalyst
pock marking psyche.

Summer is friction & the yellow urban sky –
thin shirts, dusty seeds – all about
wedges of sunlight, exotic fruits
I can find & handle, cleave into,
the mouth made to matter,
evenings weary
as sweating brick.

But always in the thick of it:
itch of weather gone predictably haywire,
expectant times of day
like mood-strums, fault lines;
catch in the throat a hassle
of would-be closure crookedly
swallowing fey air.