Jesuits Ate My Basketball

The north wind blows cold, and the snows fold over like blankets in the closet. Spirals spin in acrimonious dances, prancing madly at unheard music. The tune is soon gone and, as the sun rises, it trips, breaking dawn. Sweeping pieces of the fractured day, this display of frozen water glistens brightly, and dims nightly. The wrong song is sung, again, but rightly. In the East I wonder what magic holds sway, what words they say to welcome strangers into their folded blankets. Time is chemistry and physics, spanning consciousness, but slips away like fishes. Delicious moments linger in memory, gone but not forgotten, the sweetness tastes a little rotten, I'm afraid. Tears do not forestall the thunder that always comes behind the light. I do not fight to see, or hear, or know, but slowly come to understand that which is no more. This floor supports my tired feet, becomes a bed for back and head, and now I must depart. I'm dead, I think, but still I write, this word, and this one will not stop. The cold, again, is coming now; it burns my bones to ash, until no trace remains. Will she see my face in snow drifts, bed sheets, and shoe laces? I long for lingering embraces but arms slip through me, ghostly, and listen to my beating heart. Will this missive find kind eyes to see its meaning, to see its lies, to see its preening self-adulation? Will it speak to a soul that listens? I hope so.