For a change of pace: just before pouring a very large saucepan of
boiling water on my right foot, I'd typed this up from my notebook to
send along in reply to Keston's rhetorical question t'other day, to wit,
"What did you write, today?" The poem is untitled, though "Ouch" is a
temptation.
The name was cold:
it wrapped itself counterclockwise in
uncommon anonymity
& walked head-down into the blizzard.
A chinook
erased the ice-shield,
resurrected the braille ciphers.
The feeling was cinerary, warmth
holding earnest
of homecoming at harm's
length.
Hobblin' Pete.
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