HARD WINTER



And now, more snow.

The earlier, dirtier

head-high mounds

whiten again.

 

The better to sample

Boston’s carbons,

to graph each black

particulate.

 

The deeper to bury

a man, a frozen

statuesque

pedestrian;

 

a heart and brain,

a wallet-sized

ex-wife, ex-kid,

debit card,

 

car keys, house keys,

all he carried

to furnish the blind white

afterlife

 

he lived. Your typical

lost Pompeian,

overtaken

by the white ash

 

and the black ash.

Those parfait layers

still measure him.

As a tree’s rings

 

still measure that nail

you hammered in.

You, his bad child,

playing alone.





           Tar River Poetry V. 53: No. 2 (2014)