two degrees.
it is dropping
and snow slopes up the banks,
shore up to the house,
a blanket, a frozen wave.
it is ignorant to consider
your own wisdom but wise
to admit the unknown dark,
the naught of the future –
and yet i want to know, i beg
to hear the forecast from your lips,
raining, with a chance of hailing
a cab to the nearest airport.
sunny, no clouds in the sky,
and a high of whatever the fuck
it is that i feel when i
hear you talk at night
in the hushed tones, the sweet glance,
the way you look away.

i know what time it is there:
how cold is it?
can i curl beneath another blanket?
i know things i never thought
would matter about a place i never
wanted to be and there it is,
in the middle state between
a dream and a goal and i want
that reassurance, that conversion
of the ephemeral to the concrete.
i ache down to my feet,
my boots crusted with snow.
when will they slick themselves with rain?
and when they do, can they
return to snow again?

Advertisements