bicycled to the stupour
dry streets only no trails
with their uneven coatings
of frozen walked-through slush
and the dust of a small flurry
that today's sun hasn't yet melted
away to damp chipsand bike tires
could grip to roll
poem on a house:
folk artist painted poem
surrounded by wood carvings
and little feat in harvest
want full-frame enlargements
one-hour is too soon
for a return
to here
had desire
to bike to marysville
and back alongside the nashwaak river
but those trails would be too icy
for road-cross-mountain steed
so poet turned face into the wind
the better to travel to a water
nymph on a river so far beyond
poetry waiting
in a mess of administration
a wee dram of life to warm up
football preempted by empty stocking
and the poets today are anxious
and goal-orientated wanting more
than the mystery of their whatever
to get knights through
making space here
floor for the spare single
hauled from basement warehouse
and stuffed under stacked futons
not presuming poet a pea princess
or a role greater than being
however joked by experienced
wanting new magic to dazzle
warmest decembar day
an arrival in light tears
joy not sorrow predicted and hoped
but that is the first of next month
sure it's coming soon but days away
and almost a quarter of earth
separates as days shorten
and draw all closer
T: camouflage
loc: comCtr
temp: -1 C
sound: Pere Ubu, "My Darkness"
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