This municipal park air
turns everything it touches to pudding skin.
And visions of sugarplums
dancing on the head of a thumb drive...
We mark the pathway back, though
by now that way has gone viral,
and like everything else,
will soon leave us starved.
And winter is an unkempt beard,
you know that right?
Certain screws need tightened.
Certain senses, heightened.
Moving on to other ailments...
Love and the bread-and-butter
assortment of petty anxieties.
We get wilted and go on
beating about the ragged expanse
of brittle grass and jungle gyms,
leaving footprints in the snow
like notes on a score.
And yet each step still lacks music...
The noble power to thaw...
No mention of spontaneous combustion
in the forecast, only false starts and faces,
imaginary places where everyone
decks out in moth dust and goes
pitter-pattering through the pagan night.
I've practically given up
on my right to grievous self-expression,
I'm that dumb and particular.
A variegated shame.
I'd like to pause here a moment
and enjoy the lonesomeness
of this sphere. Yes, nothing here
but lonesomeness. Lithe,