contrapuntal for a november birthday 33.64414063919488, -117.57414150416206
the snow is always excited to see you,
clinging to your legs in a mad rush like a child.
what sounds!
jewels twinkling over the roofs of the city- windchime wilderness.
the body is what coalesces in constancy,
so you become the relic
red brick.
you are a monument
at night
when every left turn should lead you home,
none ever do.
out of reach, the wheat chaff that floats in the wind
the sealed salt crystal
the molten sun
the eucalyptus dripping from high rafters
but to touch
what quiet sounds like
how warm peace used to be-
a palatial forgetting onto which the snow settles in great drifting sheaves,
taunting with its impermanence, a child.
to move-
does it take a body?
no, just the memory is enough.