This North

Virginal Frost
Breathes frost
Further and far
Deep into the sharp now sounds of my moribund city
Lending holy shards of aura
To every titian ray-mode-streetlight
Cotton Columns de heat
Rise and compete
Puffing and coughing
Shit and smoke signals
For all those cold living souls
That choose
To ignore them
Through the hardened veil of climactic integers
That snow squeaks
It speaks
In frozen blasphemies
And kicked with intention
It mumbles
Millions of idle geometric
Whispers
Secrets for my stinging ears.
Good is
That Northern advice.

by R.J. Bevans

Comments (0)

There is no comment submitted by members.