Fire & Ice

Close the windows; coincidence is dripping in.

It covers the town in a blanket of significance.



Under pens, intentions ripen.

If there’s something I’m not supposed to see,



please, please, I don’t want to see it.

The porridge boils on the stove, hearkening back.



This is the end, not the man-starred, bird-streaked,

valor-fed, bad-breath, windswept beginning. Across



the land, the land on which we stand grows old.

The porridge boils on the stove, hearkening back.