In a quick-March moment
we’re back in long black underwear,
white cold, crossing blade-slick streets. 

Steam rising
between the ears
of every suited sidewalk vagrant.

Attaché eyes cast in concrete,
gazes fastened to ropes,
tied to passing feet.

I could stay roped down,
encrusted under the brown ice-pack.
I could continue to wake up
in a four-seasoned winter
of cold sweats.

But a purple horizon
at the West edge of town,
left-over light,
catapulted over
by a glistening sunrise,
begs a moment of Royal deference.

And I choose to give it.


  1. Despite the bleak renaissance of winter,
    spring can’t be far away.
    The flow of creative juices
    flowing through you
    can only mean,
    that the light
    is about
    to be

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