The last great snowman
was a mess of wet heaps,
white. And inside you
could feel the water. Mittens
seemed to just absorb the
stuff. Frigid fingers when it
hits them; just enough.
A wet grazing, snow-flakes
falling down. The being hit
over head with accidentally
too big snowball. Drip around
the neck and in the clavicle,
disappear inside of scarf—
colder.
Getting older, every day and
every night, until I'm the holder
of overlarge bomb. Doing the
wrong thing, feeling bad about
it.
The oxidizing from the touching
and the touching, and the touch-
ing. And then lunch of hot soup
and microwaved grilled cheese
sandwich.
