deepundergroundpoetry.com

warmth is what's remembered

in the playpen of an infant
they are spinning
along with a snail
wearing a monicle
and a triangle
spiraling
brown-red of crumbled brick
above

below is not the ninety nine feet of snow
that was lain well before we walked
nor is it the slush that the rushers make
soaking in beneath our denim
under where chalk can still spell cold

they become recognizable
from way outside
when the curves round down
flat, and they are viewed
from a two by three inch rectangle
that stretches to scale
the too many million miles away
lightbaron
Written by lightbaron
Published
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