Monday, November 27, 2017


This is what 
those small days feel like 

after Thanksgiving 
but before December—

the intensest pressure 
is the necessity of waiting,

the secret force that exists 
in the intervals, 

in the cracks, 

two realities inescapable.

Out in the street now,
every single structure braces—

inhales, quits its motion, 
and prepares beautifully.

This mute yet substantial 
sensation of blankness, 

of no-longer autumn but 
not yet winter,

keeps seeping into everything—
saps all color and feeling,

leaves each pale vampiric body 
on the landscape 

strangely hyper-vivid, 
clearly defined, sharpened,

tense and rigid
as if—frozen in ardent anticipation 

of proximately 
being—actually frozen.