We’re back in the snow and I wish I could see the sky right now because I’m pretty sure night has fallen. I’m pretty sure the world knows where we are but they’re just afraid to walk out this far — afraid to leave their cabin, their firewood cavern which chimney smokes hope halos in the night.

The Restructuring of the World

I am fashioned full of rhymes
and half forgotten things.
You are staccato bass beats
and immortalized memory.

And in the temporal symphony
of clicking heels and west tornados
all the dichotomies congregate
find marriage in harmony.

Luck likes the taste of us in her mouth.
We linger —
like mushroom smoke in the aftermath
haunting the rivers
and coloring the winds,
having an era named after us
be it a coronation of destruction
or majesty.