Day Twenty-Three: ‘Probing, Melting’

April 23, 2013

What was that dream in the state park soaked in snow

when the young fawns blinked hello and receded?

You’re in the old Ford again, Curly at wheel

and the other two sighing alphabet games to occupy.

Age 18 or some near variation.

Trotting miles from campus to smell the pines

and listening to learn, to grow — before you knew everything.


What is has melted like fields of blue winter

where old deer shrug and drop at hidden barrels.

You’re at the shop again, Ponytail at register

and the fellow clerks hawking pots to pay the rent.

Cold 22 with some lump in your throat.

Sneezing rarely so to hide a bit more self,

and thundering to flee, to find — before your ice dissolves.


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