hammer
on a whim, in the middle
of the night, the white world
calls for me
because it is cold
with a sleek weight of delight
& full of a mask¯
I hear a call only as I translate
the light insisting this darkness,
counterweight apple to the moon,
pale-raw without promise
of a thaw.
from my window I see how
the altar-street calls for pattern¯
physics longs to be a riddle!
I throw a hammer & it careens,
heavy-blunt as a gunshot,
down to where ice hardens under powder.
never have I loved the expressionless
stencils of chance as much as now¯
snow inches its gaps but there
where this new hammer
fell & danced
like a dropped skull
are hieroglyphs
filling them with rules.
KS
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