Virgin Snow


Sensory recall one:
     Chilled, I hear a whistled crescendo approaching from behind
     Curious melody in tune with the way the light shines through the trees over there under the first snowflakes of the year
     Vague hand gestures signaling more to the universe than a physical manifestation

Stepping in time,
     Out of time,
          With time,
               On time,
          Crushing time,
     Building time,
Slipping on ice that forms as we walk through the seasons towards nothing in particular.

Electric shock system
I'm down
And you reach down as well and pull me up,
     Touch feeling like that first snow,
          Soft but warm
               As blood meets blood with arbitrary dermic barrier between.

The touch doesn't fade as hands wander and words are said with movement;
     Energy is energy is energy
          No matter what form...
               Sound heat and pressure all enact the nerves, and all are used as a means to perpetuate equality in our dealings.
                    Erotic as they are
                         They are fair and balanced and plush and sweet

But you are always running.

Winter winds swept you into my yard with the snowmen,
     Different only by flesh and brains and heart and blood.
          Blood running through your veins...
               Circulation of a bull always running.

You're always running.

And I run after you,
     Though sometimes I shouldn't,
          Ignoring cross walk umbrellas,
               Preferring the downpour on our skin
Like sleek metal impalement.

We burrow and we climb,
     Snapping twigs and sharing poems,
          Watching sunsets on roofs and drinking coffee with too much cream.
               Sitting by rivers, talking, foreshadowing.

First bench with 48 inches between,
     Next ground with 17,
          Finally negative
          As you reach into my lungs and pull me near by my breath,
               Holding it and cradling it and shushing it with yours,
                    Breathing sweet nothings that mean everything,
                         Credibility gained in poetry and dissertation,
                    But always pulling closer
               And holding tighter
          And biting harder
     And knowing that one and one is two
But two is not what we were.

We were the infinite,
     The noble,
          The split lipped system of insight and insistence.
Traveling and tasting and trailing fingers up arms.
     Never down, just up, the way that you do.
          Always moving forward and never stopping to retrace steps.

You; always running.
You; existential microcosm enacting licentious fantasies with the bare-backed marionette.
You; pneumatic ecstasy expounding dullness from this grey and muted world of tin and cloth.
You; a boy.
     Son of Eros and father of time,
          For a moment with you costs an hour,
               A conversation- a day,
                    A touch- a lifetime,
                         Thinking only of immediate consequences and appetitive quell.

I run but I fall and I drift with the winds,
Never having learned to whistle and too afraid to speak up.

I freeze and I drown and I am forgotten,
For inharmonious notes are always trimmed from the greatest of symphonies.

A good artist knows how to edit his work.

I listen to the song on repeat,
     Like a Siren's call baiting me towards the rocks,
          But I do not go, for I have fallen and drowned and singing is muffled by water.

I see you
                    Over time
                         And under time
                              And through time,
                                   And I worry sometimes
                                        That you will outrun time,
As you've outran me,
But I quell and fade with the melting snow,
Taking your place among the snowmen as spring creeps near,
Penetrating the earth and moving out of sight to help another living being,
Tapping the song of April showers
Because I had never learned how to whistle,

As you run on,
Always forward and never back.



absolutely beautiful

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