Test, It Is Bone

… jet stream, pull you leaded cold from the North …

I.
I shovelled you out, like a car from snow, your bullet head and dog-feet made of glue
headlights and shadows, the street it did know
odd, phosphorescent dome of yellow
frozen bling on your branches, a test, it is bone

Full moon above clouds, which were below-lit by city lights
too bright to watch tv
by the calculus of your long, cold nights
buster-wind, you are cruel as Edith Piaf in a snowstorm

II.
Morning sky the color of road salt and glacier
sick as a dog, sicker than sick, sick as in sick
jet stream, pull you leaded cold from the North
jabbers and dabblers in frostbite
the everything of me rages against you to survive
filler of picture books with your iglooed nightmare

III.
Just large enough to be looming, just far enough away to shadow
drastic, fantastic, as winter as a humidifier
bubbling plastic contraption, your heartbeat, ahhh…
dreams of autumn cats, released into a sunset field
chaser of birds who are so much larger
so plenty in their physical erudition

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