i.
Snow erases even itself,
an artist painting white onto an empty canvas;
tricks of the eye, depth and illusion
a blank.

You walk, in a black jacket,
past trees bent with icicles.

We all hold
the weight of winter in our limbs.


ii.
In April,
we feign surprise when snow
flurries past the windowpanes.

Even in this thaw, we feel
frozen inner landscapes

down to the bare bone.

"The wheels just keep on turning.
The men just keep on marching in.
And the inner heart divides."
- Company of Thieves




What we have found here is gold,
if you are on a west-ward search for uncharted
emotional territory.

The mental pictures in my head
shift
to some blurred-edged
image I have of you
now.

I don't have anything to say.
To either of you.
You A are something long awaited.
You B, something I have held onto for too long.

Which is which?

I've been compromising,
-- for who?