euclid and the tinder box river of flint crossings

photograph by Enzo Martinez ©

how much to bargain hunt for poems here 

looking to be open game, Winter storms

the crusty bread beneath my arm,

sees poker chips for fingers,

my synapses crackling with an itch

the wind climbs and claws in

to any bare skin it can

while I am bending

sure stepping from the car

now parked in white cotton rain

I watch the snow fly

a rag-a-muffin with blue eyes

I pocket the splendor of a flannery

strolling the streets

in hollow pointed odd gaits

I stop and turn phrases

I am what people say

about shaving when

folks like me are misbehaving

as close to clever as they can

no tipping

dripping our hand

into antique irony

and hung metaphor,

old river towns are full

of metal smiths tending coal fires

swaying bracket come-ons

between rust and exhale

the pounded shapes

humanity takes

between forge,

fastened and wood

here, we slow down words

creak their wares

language myth

each unhinge

each divide

each gale

we hang

wonder for sale

every side of glass

when it snows

we stick inside frenzy

we cling to every fallen self

we pause and fold

we etch reflections

spider their reaches

become hoarfrost-ed

and corner framed

pinches of time

tufted snow gathers atop

old verbs, noun fish and connectors

flourishes for breathlessness

here, where we languish

in letter arrangements

repeated tried and displayed

every look back

along old alleyways

is steeped with quick

emotional commerce 

songs about the shopkeeper 

sometimes still living

upstairs from the storefronts

with some piece of a home

stuck inside it’s sleeping jingle

and buzz-less neon

between a bunting and fences

between compound lenses

we encapsulate each step

we take coin to coffin intent

infinities become like flowers

following lent and

flowing from rented hearses

overheard knowing what it is  

that dust seeks to cover

why do we still bell doors

downstairs from where

we live our dreams behind glass

while leaning inot the dark

hush gasping for ass to cover in ash

chimneys stoke open

envelopes of quiet outside

the warm huddled insides

of their esophagul 

brick and mortar

shelter bedding down

for the storm

late night burns

my steps onto streets

I turn a tumble open inside me

that is locked and closed

like a light that has been left on

for me to see that

while it is still cold outside

it seems just warm enough

to peer inside for where

hidden poems may lie

while I am waiting

escaping in the scrape

of a plow and eating

to the other side of din

all this snow

caught hunting

the quiet too

arresting memory

under streetlights

and silhouettes

caught looking in

at what being crazy

still gets you

by way of credentials

and each autograph

of forget written

with a fine tipped

permanent marker

EJR ©