The phone sleeps curled up
on
the bedside stool
The
lampshade hangs its head in shame
and
sheds a sorrowful yellow
The
blank face of the tv
like
a baby on the hardwood floor
My
mind looks out
from
the attic it lives in.
The
snowscape: an artist's impression
chalk
on black paper
Footprints
mar the white
where
the dreams of yesterday
have
trudged on and gone
smoothed
over by the last snowfall
meteor-burns
on a perfect ridgiform
The
red light from a radio tower
spreads
banded legs into the night
like
a tarantula
Flakes
swirl in the flash of twigs
around
the streetlamp
like
the flies of winter
Houses
huddle down the lane
look
out from under snow coats
clutched
tightly around their ears
like
rows of homeless men
Icicles
hang before brooding windows.
The
road glistens wetly
with
its military stripes
The
sky is aglow with that
mystery
light of winter nights
And
I wonder if it's only
passing
cars and clouded breath
that
roam these secret streets.
Syracuse (1994-1998)
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