It’s almost two-dimensional,
that winter sky before a snowfall.
Sheet of stifled light hangs
over our heads, paper tacked
onto a gray ceiling, a lonely page
asking for a poem.
It forfeits all other possibilities
in favor of one; it mourns
in its sleep, the cold more
an insinuation than memory.
Those icy hands have previously
doesn’t mean we are intimate.
The wind that carries its alto
stabs requiems into my flesh,
purple dirges on my skin
for whom touch had never
been enough despite the lies,
always claiming otherwise
to the lover, to the hunger,
and the wait,
that wait for the sky’s descent
as divined by meteorologists,
modern oracles with instruments
almost down to the half minute,
like a drumbeat of frozen seconds,
a funeral of mornings,
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