Soul

A night of freezing rain has turned the snow banks
into Eames, into molded plastic

At the bus stop, our muster lacks punch
Our faces are drawn to our salt-dusted boots

Signs warn children about wasted motion
lest they thaw too soon

The sun looks like a tea stain on Somerset paper

A missal of boys in black hoodies pass smoke
and exhale coronas they look like

Assisi looking for sparrows
before their colors ripen and vanish

by Peter Jay Shippy

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