A Fresh Impression


Maybe I should pull it

out of my ass;

the unwritten memoir

the poems

the pain

the not soon-to-be forgotten winter that refuses to end.

 

My friend had said she would shoot herself in the face

except for the dog

her personal savior

who oddly lost weight in the winter

loved to dance in the snow

the white powder

glistening on its wet nose, shepherd’s rescued tail, shiny fur

swaying

me to strip

off my inner gloom

and take that first nose-dive  into the past.

 

Into the still stark white

as I strained

squeezing out excrement, snot and saliva

as black letters bled-out across the page

combing through the drift

shaking off the bad   

compressing it all into a snow angel

its fragile wings

broadcasting a somber  joy

emerging playful 

and puckish

plummeting    headlong     into the mound.

 

 ImageImage

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