Icicle (Number 2)
I have sat for hours
by John Farrell
plotting out the cartography of winter
dark/ cold and then not winter after all but my life.
The frozen al fresco dressed in olive and burgundy
screaming in the wind-chill,
the white-out night of agony and schizophrenic whispers.
My faith is gone
I have heard the fantasy Russian military music in my head.
Turning atop the blood stained
pillows feeling the withering of
The snow has coated Loring Park and downtown.