Sunday, September 11, 2005

The bed has become a shopping cart
with a bag of brown fruit in it
Eric has to push it, but ice
stuck to the sidewalk shines

The sun has begun to
melt Eric’s body. This morning
when he rubbed the corners of his eyes
crystals of ice like icing sugar

When he blew his nose, ice-crystals
When he brushed his hair, ice-crystals
Eric’s skin is covered by this frost
Except where he cut himself shaving

He has to move his cart
11 blocks, before the wall of ice
forming like a stalled storm-front
solidifies at the corner of Hope and 1st

Hope Avenue
is slippery; the cart goes
any direction, and Eric has no
traction on the sweating sheet of ice


At 11:36 PM, Blogger willowbutton said...

...but ice stuck to the sidewalk shines...
interesting our brief discussion of style but still I begin to hear even through the tattered veils of style a unique voice come through, a way of perceiving things that is simple in sentiment but complex in rendition (not quite right that word, but something like it only deeper), making a satisfying balance.


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