where’s the money shot

sunny with a real feel of 5
degrees Fahrenheit

another cruel moment in April
gets trapped under ice

no algae
nothing’s blooming

good or bad
here where the climate trickster

of our own making
never sleeps

Frankenstein’s monster drinks
from the fetid future

has not yet learned
how to lie

he won’t open his eyes underwater
he won’t tell us what he hears

in all that muffled blue
his silence is damaged

if he would declare his damage
it would spill then bleed

into the fibers
of a wrongly-folded map

someone has abandoned
on the frozen ground

remember those

pockets of jamais vu
dot the landscape

with crimson-tinted notes
in the minor key

no one asks to be
the hero image

that spans an iridescent bridge
to nowhere

Unforeseen

Nets tangled and wet cast
shadows across a step street. An urban
torch flickers. Those narratives

get recorded large and
blotched on skyway
glass back in this middle

where below there’s tonight’s snow—
laced with diamonds—and a full moon
to guide me home.

Swollen Lake

Of the Isles. Share,
yield, shorten
leashes indefinitely. Don’t
run over the butterfly
or dragonfly or
moment. No one complains. Take a wider
breadth. The drinking
fountain is an island
in standing water
you can’t reach—for now.

Sets Her Right

She almost settles
for a blank page. At the last
minute, she drops

ink—no coloring
inside or outside
the lines. There are none.

Just a geometry
of faith in some kind
of muse. Be it green-tinted

goslings growing by
the second in the grasses
along Lake of the Isles. Or,

some other miracle
still capable of bursting

on the scene upon our poor
wearied planet.

Ain’t Paul (or a Fresh Tale of Two Cities To Come Soon)

The S slipped
or becomes
silent a month before
the Green Line begins
service between the two

cities. Crosses the river
in light rail stitching.
She saw the test train return
to the larger downtown
this morning. Her faith

in imperfection runs
parallel to
coincidence and letters

that sometimes drop
off without warning.

Ice in Formation

It could be a horse’s white
mane that hangs

over an outdoor
sconce. Week after

week, it doesn’t melt. Is it
permanent? She hears

a recording of her own
voice and wonders who

might want to curl up
inside it till it thaws.

Northern

She believes in triangles—
would rather not
triangulate. Hates crowds,

loves New York. Sees
no contradiction. The third
sister balances

textures with the sound
of a quarter moon
hitting the February sky

over Loring Park. What lies between
Minnesota and New England

are all the stories
she has left
to tell.