The
size of this winter is huge.
Tree
green gone;
what
birds here hunched,
other
birds south singing.
Zeroly
peopled,
raw
streets
accept
in silence
the
blind building beams.
Gaunting
skullish faces
the
semi-moving sun
random
orphan of
the
billion-balled astronomy.
The
merry legs of summer
driven
deep indoors -
apehanging
elbows
bottomly
chaired.
Cold
hosiery
and
freeze-dried eyes -
night
shoes numbing
the
silent dog-whistle
of
death.
Ben Passikoff is a retired engineer. His poems have
appeared in The Quarterly Review of Literature, Atlanta
Review, Harvard Review, Sarah Lawrence Review, Texas
Review, Literal Latte, Orbis, and a truckload of
other journals. His pursuits are poetry and survival.
Magazine