The Frost and the Sun

The morning the snow stopped,

I saw a salt-stained skeleton

stretch across the subway floor

to reach a fawn fossil

coiled in the corner

for warmth.


But the numb cold morning cannot

cover the honey streaks of sun,

stretching naked in front

of the elevated train window,

or interrupt the fire yolk of her



so that, when treading a hell

of ice that clings to the street like lust long mistaken

for love, I see cherry buds bursting

through branches that have watched the frost

die every time.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.