a life sentence for its strip of land. But sometimes it glows, livid as a scar.
Month: January 2017
Sound travels more slowly in the cold.
Over the next four years, some words may freeze before they leave our mouths.
that faint overlay
on every cellphone photo—
my own face
Seasoned, we say,
as if time and weather were condiments.
In penmanship class,
time itself was looped, recursive, as my vision blurred and fingers cramped around the cursèd pen.
boulder field in snow
its only other crop
besides lichen
Ribcage:
simply because of that word, I have always thought of my insides as a jail.
Growing up during the Cold War
we watched for the flash of a nuclear strike by day, and by night, the mysterious lights of UFOs.
turkeys in snow
each footprint resembles
a bird in flight
bitter cold day
crushing dried horsebalm
for the scent of lemons
The first people to make flutes from bones:
what must they have believed about music to search for it there?
In this new upside-down world
crops grow in the absence of sunlight, sexless and cold as an economist’s dream.
