Winter stole the Witching Hour's dark from midnight
The cold collapsed the sun by 5
Our cars became warm huts of laughter and mix cd's
sliding around iced slicked corners
roads towards anywhere that was somewhere else
from those homes with beds where we could see our breath
thick as clouds
rising into the pale shallow terrariums of our bedroom ceilings
Bics kissed the tips of hand rolled cigarettes and spliffs
But nobody went home smelling like smoke
because we kept the windows down
Even with the roar of the highway passing through
every layer of every thrift store score
so we smelled like cold wind
like skies turned orange from the snowfall bruised by streetlamps
If there are ghosts that haunt us
spirits that stay long after the going
because there was something unfulfilled
a grievance begging its tithe
then, this is probably a wonderful haunting
to feel the cold, rattling its chains inside my teeth
to know I would always be from this
to know I could never go back
solid start, brother
ReplyDeleteI like the whole thing, but particularly the stanza that begins with "Bics kissed the lips," for all the rhythm, assonance, and consonance.
ReplyDelete