Minus Twelve
here life breathes the ice storms
and the frozen foot soles
the undersalted sidewalks
and the people who burrow inside
but then you and i keep standing
buried in snow and evaporating breath
warm and felt by our own mittens
the cunning winter retreats
As Old as Time
The clock hands orchestrate
the change in us all,
like a conductor waving his
baton and the adolescence
in me becoming frail and old.
Part of growing is the sound
of the symphony at your ears
leaving a crescendo swiftly:
time runs cold like a trombone
case closing after the band plays.
The music ticks gone and silent,
but what a timeless concert.
Bathroom Breaks
I’ve seen you in November,
inside of a blood-red washroom stall,
etching prose in the paint
with your kilt pin hoping they aren’t
asking after you as time flickers.
It tells me you sow Love
and sacred Protection even as seedling.
Even when the bell blares.
Even when black kajal prays hidden
underneath soil and fingertips.
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