poetry cannot help
but step on.
In a frozen rush,
both the past
and future bug-out
and suddenly my thoughts
feel obfuscated and dark,
falling-but-stuck
somewhere
in the dismal
breach between
the quick
haiku rush of
golden springtime wisdom
and that silvery
tingle of a Christmas
card greeting—
like a desperate
Rudolph, with his
nose so bright
took me
to the river,
dropped me
in the water—
right nearby
that desolate
bank where
Neil Young
shot his baby.
