the garage in T-shirts. Today
the first snow on a wind of
—in this political climate—malice.
Teeth, spit, and red gums—the cops
in hand-me-down DOD gear
swing swift the black batons,
riot shields flashing, the sun a white hole
above us. The rupture,
the false rapture—you milking pepper spray
from your beautiful eyes, one blue-green
the other hazel, the first pool I
drowned in in order to live.
2.
A toddler’s lost
red glove, found when last year’s gray
snowbank faded, its match long since tossed
and rotting, I imagine, for decades more
in a landfill—some metaphor for the soul and
its dream. Therefore, you and me.
And our boy, who brings a kaleidoscope to his eye,
twists the cylinder,
and what was certainty is now
shards and flecks of stars,
bits of mirror
to make a world from.
