There is a decent amount of stillness
in snow, and also in the yellow of
daffodils. It would be easy to say they remind
me of you, but they don’t. The crown of each
burns. All around, people

are effortlessly people. Some elsewhere.
Poets are ghosts. It is not especially
romantic. Stillness and the urge to participate,
hoping the snow sits. Casting out lines, always
wonky, the agony! Sounds good does it.

Yet in the centre, amber. Suspended,
knowing our faces are lunatic gaps in some
bottomless armour. So far into absurd that
money is unfathomable, hearts birthing
bright from our sleeves like hernia. Still,

the need to be a part of it, to have existed.
To never forget that we are slipping away
all miracle. Vivid and extra, skin and light,
experiments in weather. To touch, to write it
right. Staying open in the only way we

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