Stranded Snapshot

Is this rain, or sleet, or miniature
hail—this life becomes
a wintry mix. No plot, no narrative, this is

continuous till
it ends. But it doesn’t stop

there. She slips on a Howard Ben Tré
sidewalk glass
eye and falls. Waiting

for a bruise to form
on her upper right

thigh, she seeks
comfort in the purchase
of a sky

blue button-down shirt.
On her way home, she walks slowly

around the offending
eye. Accumulation answers
the question no one really asked.

H2O: Same as Water

Questions about
the history of ice hover

in the coffee
bar air. Little plastic
green army

men are strewn
across a mezzanine
floor. The child
whom they belong to

hums in a corner.
All I can think is
someone will slip

and fall on ice
or war.


To panic about ice
yet to form, comments yet
to be made, technology
yet to break down,
a Coleridge poem printed

and not read
is to be most afraid
of how serendipity dances
across pavers—
cracked or not.

Drift—Or Curse of the Smiling Eyes

Slip on ice but don’t fall
down. Seventeen more

days. We want a preview.
If I were a train,

I’d be local
and mostly underground

till I’m not. Sub or el—either way
I’d move people more

than I could ever move you

or me into tomorrow’s
shades of the unstratified.

(Day 3,014)

Beware ice beneath
the door mat. She
may knock you

down with newly retrieved
self-confidence. When it’s this cold,
the surreal slips inside

cracks in doors, walls,
boots, skin. Water is
life or death—depends

on perspective. More
life, she thinks, when she keeps
her balance across thresholds.