Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Novemberance

Foreshortened day,
unwelcome touch,
and unkind light.

I read the warnings,
count out their syllables. 

Then snow webs 
untidy, un-mappable, 
planting everywhere.

Racing, erasing my flesh, 
being, becoming my body.

_

the last supper

There are thirteen of us at the table. But just our awesome, regular selves. (No Jesuses or Judases.) Headed for home come morning! At least...