Change the chemical composition of our
where the last of this season’s snow withers still
in the recesses and shadowed places
the sun light
Holding my palm
to a prophet (a designer of fate)
I find comfort in the remedies she offers.
It’s a Tuesday which dematerializes before us
in such a flurry of philosophizing that our lips turn blue
Acceptance has been passed down to us
so let us be gloomy and in love and utterly
Strangers at the brook suspecting firearms are being sold
out of the city’s service equipment shed off Mill Street
let us pass without
The market is abandoned.
The air blushes pink with the flavor of cinnamon as
I seek an escape from this wearisome close
of winter’s retreat with a prophet who denies her actions on the solstice.
But the regrets we share from yesterday’s follies transform into a clarity
that designs within us
a passing reprieve.
At the base of the stairs she gives me
and closes my hand about it.
I grow fearful of the eyes behind the white windows.
The sound of the cars passing
on the street
make me want to answer her unasked question but find I
don’t have any words.
There is something believable about you
she tells me
but now I can only wait for you
to wake up.