four degrees.

so far, so good,

not.

winter, if you ever end,
spring will wake up
wearing green pajamas

wake up from night
in that black skirt
that forever defies folding.

i admit i find it frustrating
that the plowman never once
considers the purpose of the exercise.

i still can’t get the car out.

but never mind that–once it was
the sort of thing i found irrelevant.
it was the root and fruit
holding a thousand years
in one core
and the fall of another star
into a shell
holding the roar of the sea
that had meaning.

but that was before i became
this bell already rung
with fallen dust inside my heart
and thoughts of home beyond a thousand sails–

my left shoe print : only afternoon,
my right shoe print : already evening.

i should stick to clouds
as a topic of poetry.
clouds in a greenless wind
from carved curves
toward sky beyond sky
and the moon slanting toward the west

as it speeds across the river