Polar Vortex-
The hole in my sock
widens
Arizona-
So little snow
so many flakes
Union Station-
In each other's arms
on the steam grate
Lighthouse beacon-
The burnt orange of her lips
through the fog
Don't call it a comeback
We been here for years-
Hum of cicadas
Razor wire-
The creases in Father's
Orange jumpsuit
August heat-
The kink in the rope
between her teeth
August afternoon-
A drunk tongues
an empty bottle
February First-
Shoveling a path to
the grill
Chess tournament-
A boy moves from his
father's shadow
Red light-
The car locks popping
as I cross
Until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)
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